


The Pusher

by Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe, And no one cares he's gay for reasons soon to come, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, John sells them, Lennon with a hard side and soft side, M/M, Prellies, Slow Build, Sweet Brotherly Paul, The Bad Influences of John, Why Did I Write This?, Younger Mike, at least I think so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-18 01:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 78,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11281089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: When Paul returns to Liverpool after some time away, he is not greeted by the dull life he expected to continue before he left. He ends up meeting John Lennon, his school’s drug-dealer and a massive flirt, who is none too subtle about his intentions with this “new kid.” John’s negative influence begins to alight a spark in the smoldering fire of Paul’s existence, and the younger boy becomes addicted to the thrill. But will one fatal incident and a guilty conscience have the power to shatter a relationship that was already rocky from the start?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhh, I am so nervous about posting this! It's my first chapter fic, but I might as well go for it. I've already written a good bit of it, and I hope it'll continue to go smoothly for me. I don't even remember how the idea came about, but I've had it for a few months now. I hope the story line makes sense and is fluent. Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy this piece of shit :)

“So, you n’ Mike are comin’ home today, yeah?” Jim McCartney asked, a certain hopefulness in his voice.

Paul sighed and lazily twisted the phone cord wrapped around his finger. He’d much rather it be wrapped around his neck, if he were being honest. When the phone had rung, Paul could already hear his father’s faux cheery voice on the other end without having even touched the receiver. The tone of the ring seemed to change entirely, as well--like the shrillness rose so Paul knew exactly who was calling.

“Yeah, Da’, s’pose so.” Unable to match his father’s enthusiasm, Paul merely mumbled the words. He felt bad for making things that much more difficult on his dad with his disinterest. But besides this mild guilt, his emotional compass had rusted into scrap metal, leaving him about as apathetic as a sociopath. 

“Oh, I can just  _ feel  _ the excitement,” Jim tried lightheartedly. The joking manner didn’t muster so much as a smile from his eldest son, but since they were separated by several miles, he liked to pretend it did. Pretending was natural. Pretending was something they were good at.

Almost missing his father’s sarcasm, Paul could hear the patter of youthful feet before they even made their way past him in the tiny kitchen. The rummaging through cabinets already commenced before Paul could even disentangle himself from the ridiculously long phone cord. Mike frantically shuffled through the cupboards he could reach at his disadvantageous height, giggling with childish glee when he spotted a snack worthy of his eight-year-old pallet. Giving no concern for his lack of stealth, the younger McCartney relied more on timing than subtlety when he could hear his older brother’s distraction with the phone.

“Oi! Get out of the cupboards, you! You’ll have spoilt your dinner and ransacked Mike n’ Betty’s food supply,” Paul snapped, taking on a playful tone with only a hint of authority. Limited by the phone cord like a dog on a chain, the older boy could only whip the dish towel on his shoulder at the young vandal’s kneeled form. No matter how emotionless Paul felt these days, he always had a soft spot for his trouble-making little brother. 

With a mischievous cackle and a armful of goodies, Mike escaped the kitchen as quick as he came, his mission proving successful. Paul shook his head fondly at the typical antics and noticed the young boy’s sailing shoe laces as he whisked through the doorway. The loose laces were snakes around his feet, waiting to constrict at any moment and send the youngster plummeting to the floor…and later to Paul, crying about his bruised knees.

Sighing, Paul attempted to intervene before the premonition proved true. “And if you insist on running in the house, at least let me tie your shoes,” he shouted after him. The only response he received was a determined “no.” Rubbing at his forehead, Paul held the receiver back up to his mouth, hoping their mild spat didn’t hinder his dad’s hearing too much.

Hearing no further bickering, Jim took it as his cue to reinitiate their conversation. “He’s still not lettin’ anyone tie his shoes, eh?” he asked, his tone dropping to one of slight disappointment.

“Nah, just runs around barefoot or laces flying.”

“I know I’ve put quite a burden on you, son, but I just wish you’d be a little more optimistic about coming home.” Paul tried to stop his eyes from rolling, but they seemed fairly intent on defying gravity. 

“Me and Mike have just been havin’ such a gear time down here s’all,” Paul lied without a hint of conviction. 

He’d describe their little “vacation” as mediocre at best. Scrubbing greasy tables for measly pay wasn’t a grand way to spend one’s days for an entire year. Sure, he got money, but what good was that when you had nothing or no one to spend it on. Nonetheless, he figured cleaning imperfections that only reminded him of his own was a decent enough distraction from the reason behind such an abrupt change of scenery. 

“Well, that’s good to hear, son,” Jim said, blissfully oblivious to Paul’s lackluster tone. Maybe he had just grown so accustomed to it that it was considered normal. Hesitatingly, he added, “Your mother would be so proud with how well you’re doing.”

Paul froze. He internally flinched at the mention of someone he had left his hometown to forget. It wasn't so much as he  _ wanted _ to forget his mum, but that he was  _ forced to leave her _ \--to escape the looming grief that can suffocate a house after a passing. No less than a week after Mary’s death, Jim had made the rash decision to send his two boys off to stay with relatives in Berkshire. Paul began to despise his father for forcing Paul to bury his only sense of normality at a time when he also had to bury his mother. A lot of things had been buried back in Liverpool, it seemed; now leaving only the shell of a sixteen-year-old to go through the motions in a new city. 

He tried to find motivation in music, buying a used acoustic from a trade shop with the money he earned cleaning up and working the bar. And it worked for a while, but between the working and supervising his younger brother, he barely found time for himself. There were times at night, however, when he would use his record player to put both he and Mike to sleep. Soft melodies helped to ease the transition from comfortable beds to sheeps in heads, and Paul figured if he couldn’t focus on his own songs, this was the next best thing.

Even with the lack of inspiration, Paul tried to be strong. With no new friends (even after being in a new city for a year), and finding no true excitement in the repetitive days, he tried to be strong. If not for himself, at least for his younger brother who needed more guidance now than ever before. His mum had told him to be strong, too. She didn’t exactly say those words in her last dying breath, but Paul could see her eyes speaking volumes to him--saying everything she never had the chance to say. 

With more curiosity than he should have had during such a time, Paul had pushed his way into that eerie room just to get a final glimpse of his mother. He could feel the sickness seeping beneath the door of the sealed off room before he even stepped foot inside, but he ignored the ominous lurch in his gut for the unbearable ache in his heart. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the sight on the other side of the door, and he stood stiffly in the doorway.

He had no expectations for what the process of death would look like, but the sight of his mother with hollowed cheekbones and sunken eyes, and the sound of breathing much too labored for a woman of her age, would not have been one of them. In the amount of time it took to walk into a room, Paul had lost every ounce of innocence he ever had in his life. Yes, the death of innocence was the least troubling of his current losses, but it was the one that caused him to put a face with the others. The face of his mother.

When Jim tried to usher Paul out of the room with a tear-streaked face, the boy stood firmly planted, finally catching eyes with his mum when she became aware of his arrival. In a weak voice that still somehow managed to hold that maternal authority, she ceased her husband’s efforts by beckoning Paul to her. And it was there where dull eyes spoke to his frightened ones, wanting him to feel no pain. It’s an easy enough request when you’re not the one staying behind. 

The move down to Berkshire had been a way for the boys to get away from the grieving air surrounding their Liverpool home. The stale silence was a hand wrapped around their throats that Jim McCartney attempted to fight. The latter, on the other hand, had surrendered himself to the choking fingers in favor of his boys suffering. Besides, he also had to work overtime so he could support his sons when they returned after some time. Meanwhile, their once stable family dynamic began to falter as Paul, admittedly, did little to relieve the tangible tension between he and his father. At some unknown point, Paul had made a decision to keep his strongest family relations exclusively fixated on Michael. Of course, it did not seem entirely fair considering they all needed each other now more than ever, but Paul honestly had no defense for his actions; it's just the result of losing a mum and being shooed away by a dad.

Paul rapidly blinked away his dazed thoughts and sighed. Only now did he realize his father had been continuing to speak to him regardless of his lack of participation.

“Uh, yeah, Da’ that’s nice, but cousin Mike’s callin’ for me, so I gotta go,” he lied. It seemed to be an area of expertise these days. 

“Okay, but--”

“Yeah, love you too, Da’. Bye.” Without waiting for response, Paul hung up the phone. 

Exasperated with the constant relocating, he ran a hand through his boring hair. He once tried to style it into an Elvis do like he’d seen other blokes wear, but the style fell flat in minutes thanks to the cheap gel he had bought. Seeing no use in trying, he never really cared to attempt it again after that. There were no girls to impress or guys to fit in with, anyway.

He made his way up the stairs to his and Mike’s shared room and looked at the suitcase sitting at the foot of his bed. He had been living out of it since he arrived, hoping that one day his father would call them up and say it was all a joke--that they could come back home and be a normal family again. But the suitcase remained packed. 

He hoped going back home would give him the happiness he needed. The escape from the escape. After being dead to the world for a year, there was honestly no telling what to expect back in Liverpool. He assumed it couldn’t be much worse than the unfriendly departure from the place. All he wanted this time around was an excitement to fill the agonizing void within himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Soot congested the clean air around Paul as the shabby bus pulled to a screeching stop just before him. The door creaked open, and a woman spoke with a voice like she’d been smoking since she came out of the womb.

“Let’s go, kid. I ain’t got all day ta be waitin’.” Her accent was as rough as her demeanor.

Gathering his books into his bag, Paul scrambled into action at the bus driver’s brusque manner. When he finally managed to shuffle up the steps of the bus, the closest thing he got to a greeting was an annoyed sigh and abrupt slam of the doors behind him. He stood blocking the aisle for a minute, feeling uncertain--like the three steps it took to get inside the bus were actually a portal to some foreign universe. It seemed like all eyes were on him, but not a head had turned. Directing his gaze from the burly driver--who apparently hated her job with a passion--to the row of seats ahead, Paul took himself towards the back of the bus as it sputtered off with a jerk, causing him to clutch at the seats for support.

A group of older looking lads vacated the last seats at the back on either side of the aisle, so Paul seated himself a row ahead of them on the left side of the bus, avoiding eye contact and trouble. He pretended not to notice the one auburn-haired boy who followed him with his eyes. At first glance, the black leather jacket stuck out like a sore thumb, and heavy-lidded eyes glued themselves to Paul while he kept his nose to the ground until he reached his seat. They certainly were a rowdy bunch of blokes--hooping and hollering and throwing paper at one another while they smoked ciggies--but Paul did his best to ignore the racket by staring out the window, and placing himself in his thoughts.

What a shit morning he’d been having. First, he overslept and rushed like a madman to get himself _and_ Mike ready. With his dad being off to work at the crack of dawn, the responsibility was on Paul’s shoulders to get his younger brother dressed and fed before his first day back at his old primary school. His ears were still ringing from the animated way in which Mike raved about his expectations on his first day. Paul hadn’t been as fortunate…in his morning routine _or_ in the start of the new school year. The former found him with an empty stomach and a disheveled appearance while the latter found him at Quarry Bank, the next rung on the educational ladder.

Starting at Quarry Bank High after a year of being dead to the world meant beginning from scratch. The year before he left, he passed his 11-Plus exam which would have secured him entrance into the Inny. But because he was sentenced to Berkshire just before the school year began, he lost all chances of that achievement. He was at least supposed to feel as floored as his younger brother about being back at home where he could catch up with the few friends he left behind, but there was an ominous pull in his gut that melded with a pang of nervousness. He always tried to maintain an optimistic outlook on life, but the past year had cast a pessimistic shadow over him. And if this morning was any indication of how the rest of the school year would be, he was in for a real shitshow.

“‘Ey up! You a freshie?” A voice called from behind Paul, pulling him from his one-man pity party. He could only surmise that it was one of the rambunctious teddy boys at the back of the bus and could only _hope_ the bloke wasn’t talking to him.

The clamor behind him had ceased like a switch was turned off, and when Paul felt a presence behind him like a shadow, he knew he was royally screwed.

“Oi, are ye deaf or summat? I’m talkin to ye,” a husky voice and heavy Scouse accent spoke almost directly in his ear from the seat behind him. Paul’s stomach cartwheeled because he _hated_ confrontation, and this didn’t seem like the type of boy who was interested in a chat about the weather.

When his voice got stuck in his throat and his head refused to move, Paul felt a bite on the shell of his ear.

A bite! _On his_ _ear!_ The wanker fuckin’ _bit_ him!

That was enough to get Paul’s attention, and he was turning towards his offender before he could stop himself. With a scowl haunting his features, he was met with a smug grin and a defined face that was too close for comfort.

“What the _fuck_ , mate?” was unsurprisingly the only thought swimming in Paul’s head that he could voice.

“Oh, so he’s _not_ a statue. That means ‘e’s just rude, then.” He shamelessly tracked the stranger’s face, noting how his Elvis-like features were stained with a frown. “So tell me, _pretty boy_ , are you or are you not a freshie?” The boy said, slow and measured like he was talking to an idiot.

He rested his chin on the back of Paul’s seat, still breathing down his neck and apparently having no concept of personal space. Paul half wondered if it was some kind of intimidation tactic.

“Yeah,” While turning his head away, Paul mumbled his response just as a ball of paper came sailing at him and the boy behind him, landing in the row ahead of Paul.

The Annoying Twat of An Interrogator jerked his head around as if it had been a bullet instead of a crumpled wad of paper.

“Fuck off, you tossers! Ye keep on with that shite, an’ I’ll be wearin’ yer teeth as rings.” He paused, superiorly eyeing his friends up and down. “An’ I know it was you, Shotton, cause ye’ve got shit aim.”

Paul involuntarily flinched at the booming voice ringing at his ear. He certainly hadn’t expected such a commotion on his first day. If his lack of breakfast hadn’t already given him a headache, this lad would have made sure to solve that problem in no time.

Pete withdrew at the insult, accepting his position as an inferior as the lads around him snickered and instigated their own conversations. Satisfied with his authority, but not with the interruption, John reverted his attention back to the boy sunken in on himself in a similar fashion as Pete.

“Come again, love?” John smiled at the side of Paul’s face, waiting patiently for the response he missed. He may as well have been sitting in the same seat as the younger boy at this point. John had a strong hunch this kid was either new or a few years his junior; otherwise, he couldn’t see how he never noticed such a… _fresh_ face.

“Said ‘whats’s it to ya?’” Paul said, changing his words into something bolder at the last minute. He didn’t get on the bus to take shit from a bunch of older blokes. He would have much rather walked if he had known that was the case.

“Oh my, are ye always this testy towards blokes who’re tryin’ ta be nice?” John was entirely amused by the fact he could fluster this stranger so easily. An undefeatable smile embellished his lips as he pleasantly watched the black-haired boy’s soft features constrict into something that could only be described as adorable anger. He was also drawn to the gall the boy had--talking to a rugged ted like he was the scum of the earth.

_If by “tryin’ ta be nice,” you mean “an arsehole in disguise,” then yes,_ Paul thought to himself.

However, he decided not to press his luck, having already feared the reaction to his previous response.

Christ, he wanted to get off of this bus. How far away was school, anyway?

“Are _you_ always this intrusive towards blokes you’ve never met?” he said.

“Nope…I’m only intrusive towards the fit ones,” John whispered in his ear, his lips just grazing the shell. He could practically hear the goosebumps appearing on the lad, but whether it was from his proximity or his words, John did not know. He could only hope it was both. Just as his sentence trailed off, a firm hand slapped him on the shoulder.

“C’mon, John, quit harassing the newbie. Our stop’s ‘ere,” Colin called behind him on his way down the aisle while the other boys followed suit.

Before he stood, John’s eyes flashed to the window at his left to find they were indeed at school. Smirking, he stood from his seat and slid his hand along the seat in front of him as he shuffled towards the aisle. His fingers grazed the hairs at the dazzled stranger’s neck.

Paul’s body underwent another set of chills. Ever since the touch of lips to his ear, Paul sat utterly shellshocked. He made no attempt of even replying because his voice became lost somewhere amidst the implications of the boy’s words. He stared stupidly at the backs of the retreating boys until he saw that familiar one. His eyes were stuck to the older boy’s lean figure and confident strut as he made his way to the front of the bus without turning around once. When John reached the bus driver, he turned to her with a mocking posh air.

“ _Thank you,_ my dear Terrance.” He gave a mock bow, and continued, “Can I be expecting my chariot at this same spot in a few hours time?”

Entirely unamused by the troublemaker’s cliched antics, the bus driver replied in her typical gruff manner, “The only thing ye can be _expectin’_ , Lennon, is a boot in yer arse if ye don’t get off me bus in about three seconds.” She scrutinized him with narrow eyes and, turning in her seat, planted a heavy foot on the ground that was already itching to kick. John sarcastically gasped as he brought a hand to his chest.

“Well, now you’re just _asking_ for a pay decrease.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he dodged a flying foot with a shout of surprise. He threw the cranky driver a spastic face once he was within safe distance, and turned to climb off the bus. Just before John made his way down the steps, he locked eyes with the boy still seated at the back of the bus. Giving him a completely different smirk, John finally hopped off the bus to catch up to his friends who left him behind.

Paul remained staring ahead as the others around him filed off the bus as well.

What. Just. Happened?

Well, he was pretty sure he just got hit on…by a _bloke_ . A _ted bloke_ . Paul had no idea it was _that_ kind of school. The lad had been a proper douche one minute, biting his ear and that--and the next minute he was… _insinuating things_ . _Naughty things!_

How could he even get away with saying that to another bloke?! If Paul had been as much of a ruffian as his counterpart, he would have used his fists to show him just what he thought of his comments. But he wasn’t a fighter, and getting his ass kicked by six other lads before school even started didn’t seem like a healthy way to start the day.

Maybe the lad was blind as a bat, and just thought Paul was a bird. With his effeminate features, that tended to happen sometimes. Then again, he made it all too clear he knew Paul was a lad with that last remark. Then there were the chills that danced along Paul’s spine at the boy’s proximity. His words, too. Those did something to Paul that he didn’t even want to _think_ about.

Fuck, it was too early for this shit. He just needed to focus on his school work and not over-analyze the teasing words of some delinquent. That’s all it was--insolent mockery.

“Oi! Ye gettin’ off me bus, or ye plan to take up rent?” That same voice that was too masculine for its own good called from the front of the bus, breaking Paul from his morning crisis. God, he couldn’t stand this woman. Had he not been impersonating a statue, he may have laughed at the ted’s teasing of the driver. Lennon, she had called him. John. John Lennon….

“Hey, get off me bloody bus, kid!” She yelled once again to the only boy left on the bus. She didn’t know this kid’s deal, but he certainly had his head too far up his arse.

Christ, he had to get it together.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Paul mumbled as he gathered his bag and made his way off of the bus as fast as his feet could carry him. Once he stepped off the bus, he made his way towards the school he had passed so many times before only a year ago.

As the doors of the bus closed, the driver grumbled, “fuckin’ hate kids,” before chugging away down the street. 

Paul sighed. It was going to be a long day….

 

~ * ~

 

Lunch was about the only highlight of Paul’s day thus far. Well, on second thought, he _did_ get reacquainted with his friend Ivan, whom he hadn’t seen since he left. Paul couldn’t help the smile that broke out onto his face when he saw the familiar face in his first class. They used to be decent mates--bonding over music and birds. Unfortunately, they didn’t have enough time to catch up over a year lost, so Ivan asked Paul to meet him by the boys’ bathroom after school.

There was also Harry--some bloke who Paul shared a maths class with before he left for Berkshire. He recognized Paul after doing a double-take, but didn’t bat an eye to him being M.I.A for a year. After about ten minutes of the lad raving on about the latest Liverpool football match, Paul had actually _wanted_ to tune back into their English teacher’s lecture. Christ, had his social life _always_ been that dull?  

The smell of food wafting through the cafeteria derailed Paul’s train of thought until he was a drooling mess. Typically, the chewing gum you found stuck beneath desks was gourmet dining compared to what the school served, but Paul’s stomach had been screaming at him all day. Needless to say, it was too starved to be picky.

Standing behind a line of students who were in a similar state as himself, Paul grabbed one of the trays and waited for the line to shift. A gruesome array of food that should have repulsed him but only served to make him hungrier, separated the students from the cafeteria ladies. Each lady looked as miserable as the next as they slopped runny soup and cardboard biscuits onto each tray that passed. It was only his first day, and it was already unbearably monotonous.

_You’re not supposed to like it, you’re just supposed to eat it,_ Paul reminded himself as he eyed each spoonful in disdain.

“Can I ‘ave some more?” A strong, and all too familiar Scouse accent diverted Paul’s attention away from the pig-feed display. He couldn’t believe he had been so invested in his own hunger he hadn’t recognized that mass of hair and lanky frame before him.

“No, son, you know the rules. Everybody gets one serving,” came the terse response. _Christ, is every woman in this place just a bloke in disguise?_ Those hairy upper lips weren’t doing them any justice, that’s for sure.

Paul fondly eyed the ridiculous exchange before him, realizing that the boy in front of him was too concerned with just _one_ of his _many_ daily meals to recognize Paul. He grinned to himself. _Typical._

“Aw, c’mon! I’m a payin’ customer, ain’t I?” The lanky lad complained with a frown on his face. From his looks, you’d think this was the only meal he got all day. However, Paul knew first hand that was far from the truth.

“This is a school, Harrison, not a chippy. Now move yer scrawny arse--yer holdin’ up me line.”

He scoffed, but did as he was told. “Throw me a fuckin’ bone, will ya?” He mumbled to himself, but it wasn’t lost on Paul who shook his head good-naturedly.

Smiling brightly and accepting the slop on his plate without a second glance, Paul kept his eyes on the thick head of hair in front of him as he said, “Still willin’ to shag a lunch lady if it means an extra bicky, eh George?”

At the first recognition of that smooth voice, George’s head whipped around at a breakneck speed. With his jaw dropped in awe. he beamed with surprise at the lad who had been standing behind him this whole time. Paul grinned broadly at the mutual familiarity. Finally, he didn’t feel so alone in this place. Surprisingly, Ivan had been the only friendly face he’d seen all morning, and each passing teacher was more callous than the first.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Paul! Where ye fuckin’ been at, mate?!”

Paul chuckled, amused by George’s astonishment and the language with which he expressed it. “Aye, well…it’s a long story, mate,” Paul said in good humor. He didn’t want to blow George off of a well-deserved explanation. The lad had been one of his closer friends, after all. But he also didn’t want to suffer the inevitable pitying looks he’d receive when he recounted his abrupt departure.

“We’ve got a thirty minute lunch,” George tried, “and if it takes longer’n that, ye can jus’ write me a letter.” He smiled at Paul as they paid for their food, and made their way to a vacant table. “Prob’ly won’t read it, ta be honest. Jus’ ‘ang it on me wall with a nice frame n’ all.”

As soon as their backsides made contact with their chairs, George was off shoveling food into his mouth like he was in a race. Paul had forgotten how the lad didn’t play around when it came to a plate and his appetite. He openly gawked for a few moments before making a small dent in his soup like a normal person.

“Calm down, Georgie,” Paul said with a smile as he bit at a biscuit dryer than the Sahara. “It’s not goin’ anywhere, y’know.”

“Aye, but at the rate yer eatin’, I can bum some off of you when ‘m done,” he briefly met Paul’s eye and waggled his bushy eyebrows before expertly maneuvering around his tray once again.

Paul instinctively drew his own tray closer towards his hunched frame. True, he despised the food, but right now it’d be the only thing holding him until the end of the day.

“So,” George began, finding enough breath between spoonfuls to possibly maintain a conversation, “ye gonna tell me the cause of yer little hiatus, or am I gonna haf’ta play twenty questions?”

“Oh, c’mon, Harrison. You know what they say ‘bout gonebys bein’ gonebys, and all that rot. Don’t past on the dwell.”

George smirked at Paul’s obvious misuse of the hackneyed phrases. Damn, he’d missed the lad. He and Paul’s friendship had been steadily growing when his friend up and left out of the blue. It was rather odd and disheartening to not even receive so much as a goodbye when, after several lonely bus rides to school, George finally concluded Paul wasn’t coming back. But after seeing said lad appear seemingly out of thin air behind him in the lunch line of all places, he just couldn’t find it in himself to be cross with the boy.

“Talkin’ like that makes ye sound like a total nutter,” he said as he swallowed the last bite of his food. _There_ , he smiled down at his clean tray, _completely obliterated--mission accomplished._

“An utter nutter?” It was Paul’s turn to waggle his eyebrows, which were much thinner than his younger companion’s. Upping the ante, he also gave him a wink.

“I will _pay you_ ta stop talkin’ right now.” George deadpanned, though he secretly enjoyed the odd humor.

Paul laughed openly, and decided to drop his banter…for now. “So, Geo, what’s been going on with ye? Did ye get hitched while I was gone? Got a few rugrats runnin’ ‘round? Thinkin’ ‘bout retirin’ soon?”

“Yeah, but it was what they call a shotgun weddin’. She shot out a litter n’ now she beats me for it. Me life’s somewhere at the end of a whiskey bottle.” He dramatically sighed with a feigned look of hopelessness as he picked his fork around an empty plate.

Paul grinned, but turned serious. “No, but really, what’s new?”

Straightening himself, George dropped the act and placed his elbows on the table--facing Paul with a new spark in his eye as if he were about to reveal the sales pitch of a lifetime. “It’s been pretty fab, Paul! I mean I was sad to see you gone n’ all, of course--oh, and did’ya know there was a rumor about you bein’ dead or some such rubbish?” George asked, but left no room for response, even after seeing the stupefied look on his friend’s face. “I didn’t believe it, obviously, cause I still occasionally saw yer da’ roamin’ about, happy as a lark. Plus, here ye are now!” He happily gestured towards Paul. “But, yeah, anyroad, I’ve just been messin’ around on me guitar some. Learnin’ some new chords n’ that. I can show ye ‘em if ye wanted to get together one day like we used to. But enough about me--how’ve you been? If ye don’t wanna tell me about yer spontaneous disappearance, at least tell me how yer first day back has been.”

George finished off his tangent without a lapse in breathing. Meanwhile, Paul’s mind raced a hundred miles a minute just to keep up with the enthusiastic rambling. Nonetheless, he hadn’t missed that bit about his _death_ . _Christ, ye leave town for a year, and suddenly the whole bloody neighborhood’s mourning yer passing_ . Okay, a year _was_ a long time, so maybe it wasn’t _too_ far-fetched…but still! He’d certainly have to dwell more on that later. Right now, he found it much less straining to recount the brief happenings of his morning. Out of the humdrum classes and lackluster teachers, there was still one person who itched within the depths of his mind like a pest.

“Ye ever meet someone for the first time and want to buy them a toaster for their bathtub?” Paul asked nonchalantly, but with a hint of curiosity--eyeing George like he held all of the answers to such an absurd question.

“Now, now--you mustn’t play with murder, dear. It isn’t civil,” George quipped with a posh lilt to his otherwise thick accent. Adding to his theatrics, he set Paul with a high nose look and scolded him with a wagging finger.

Paul decided he wouldn’t delve into the scandalous, but _obviously staged_ flirtation bestowed upon him this morning; however, he did feel the need to elaborate on such a statement. “Yeah, well…I ran into this lot of blokes on the bus this morning, and they were right teds, y’know? But there was this one in particular who kept pickin’ at me--askin’ me if I was new n’ all. S’not really a big deal, jus’ kinda got on me nerves is all,” he said, speaking more to his hands than George himself. He hoped it didn’t seem like the encounter bothered him too much. After all, it’s what he _wasn’t_ telling George that hovered over his head like a dark cloud.

“Ah, ye can’t pay blokes like that no mind. They’re just a bunch of right dopes, anyroad,” George offered, trying to console Paul in any way he could. When the boy seemed too lost in his own thoughts to respond, he continued further. “What was this bloke’s name?”

“Wha--?” Paul’s head jerked up at the sound of a voice that wasn’t the one in his head before he looked back down at a fingernail he was picking. “Oh, um…think ‘is name’s John. John Lennon. That’s what I pieced together, anyway.”

At the mention of the lad’s name, George’s eyebrows shot dangerously close to the quiff perched atop his head. Paul observed the strikingly different expression on his friend’s face with a frown. It’d almost be comical if it weren’t slightly alarming. “What? You know ‘im or summat?” Paul ventured.

“ _Know ‘im?!_ Christ, no! _Avoid_ would be more like it--” Just as George was apparently getting into some valuable information, a shrill bell cut him off. “Shit,” he cursed over the cacophony of murmuring students and shuffling feet. Lunch was over, and so was their conversation.

He rose to his feet and looked down at Paul, who remained seated like he hadn’t heard the bell at all. Either that, or he expected George to continue regardless of the warning. “Well, c’mon then! Off ta class we go. I ain’t got but five minutes to run to the loo ‘fore me next class,” he rushed, tilting his head in hopes that Paul’s body would follow the action.

With a frown, Paul reluctantly stood, his chair screeching against the tiled floor.

“Well, wait--what about ‘im? What about John?” His words were urgent, and he grasped at George’s arm as he retreated towards the rubbish bin. He hated the familiarity with which he said the stranger’s name, but moreso, the hesitance it seemed to evoke in George. However, he just couldn’t help but want to know more about this boy who seemingly appeared out of thin air. Why does George avoid him? Should Paul be avoiding him as well? Questions stacked and teetered dangerously in his mind, making it heavy with confusion.

Shaking his head, George sighed, “Look, mate…that’s a story for another day, yeah? Don’t worry about it, okay? I’ll see ye soon.” Momentarily hesitating, he added with a smile, “it’s good ta have ye back, Paul,” before walking away.

Paul stared open-mouthed at his friend’s retreating back and ominous words. _Don’t worry about it?!_ Hell, how could he _not_ worry about it? It had been the only thing on his mind for the past few hours, and now another puzzle piece was dropped into his hands. Then there was the way George had spoken the words, like it took every ounce of breath in him, yet he only mystified Paul with his ambiguousness. Now, he honestly wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know more about the lad on the bus….  

For the second time today, Paul was left staring stupidly into the middle of an empty place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

John squinted at the crumpled piece of paper he had pulled from his pocket. He silently cursed his faulty vision but absolutely refused to wear the expensive glasses his aunt Mimi bought him. Even when he wasn't home, he enjoyed knowing he could grind Mimi’s gears in the subtlest of ways.

Desparate now, with the tiny paper centimeters from his face and his eyes no more than slits, John finally deciphered his own scrawled handwriting. A list of names trailed down the length of the torn paper, some with a line drawn through them. John smiled with satisfaction as he scratched through another name with the pencil he kept in his pocket. Another sale.

His latest, desperate client, who cheerfully sprinted out of the bathroom when John gave him what he craved, was John’s favorite type--the newbies. The ones who catch wind of this diamond in the rough hidden within the depths of the drab Quarry Bank. They approach him wide-eyed and greedy, practically kissing the dirt on his boots as he sits on his throne. In John’s mind, the porcelain sink on which he awaits new customers is bejeweled with the finest gems and blinds the eye from the very first glance. At least it would explain why every client is too intimidated to make eye contact; but that could also be blamed on his brusque tone and threatening appearance, too.

But there was one freshie who seemed far from intimidated by John, even when he put forth his best tactics and clearest intentions. Honestly, he half expected to leave the bus sporting a bloody nose after harrassing that lad on the bus. Not that he wouldn’t have fought back with all he was worth. And call him a masochist, but he just couldn’t deny the thrill he felt from pushing people’s buttons, no matter the cost. Besides, the fresh face on the bus was just too easy of a target.

One minute he was sharing jokes and ciggies with his mates on the back of the bus, and the next minute a mop of hair darker than night mounted the steps. Such a black-headed beauty could have been spotted a mile away. But John liked him much better close up. He wished he hadn’t chosen such an awkward seat; being able to look at any angle of the boy was a blessing, but seeing the front would have been more desireable.

Biting the boy’s ear had been an impulsive decision. Impulsivity was hard-wired into John’s brain, resting comfortably alongside mentalities of music, wit, and aggression, to name a few. But this time couldn’t entirely be blamed on his irrationality. Not when the stranger on the bus had an air about him that just beckoned John in for a taste. The young boy smelled so intoxicating, and he was so close that John’s teeth had sunken into the shell of his ear before he could stop himself. Luckily, that wit mentality kicked in just in time for John to play off the flirtatious nip.

No matter how much confidence he’d had when telling John off about the action (or any other time, for that matter), he never was able to meet his eye. It was a fact that bothered John, and one he itched to change. Because eye contact was power-- _and_ his best weapon in winning this charmer’s approval. And John always got what he wanted.

Except when his cock-blocking mates distracted him. He shook his head with a small scowl, still unable to release the annoyance he felt when his little chat was interrupted. Those arseholes knew what it looked like when John was chatting a lad up. They’d never openly insult John about it, though; not if they still wanted the one thing only _he_ could give them. It was a rather solid, unspoken agreement that he had with his mates. He could still remain the notorious drug-dealing, rebel he was known as but still feel secure and open in his sexuality because he supplied something over half of the people in this place needed. Who would be foolish enough to mock their dealer, anyway? After bringing a stash with him back from Hamburg, he was the only one who could keep people soaring through the clouds with an indescribable energy coursing through their veins. No, he needn’t worry about any backlash he’d receive for this newfound catch.

As his whirling thoughts came to a halt, John realized he’d been staring unblinkingly at the paper still held in his hands. He shook his head and blinked some moisture back into his dry eyes just as the bathroom door jerked open. As soon as it creaked at its hinges, John started before cursing under his breath at recognizing the noisy intruder.

“Shit, Stu, can’t you fuckin’ knock?”

“Oh yeah, sorry, John. I'll just make sure to knock on the public loo door before I enter next time. Who am I to walk in freely, anyway?” Stuart rolled his eyes as he walked further into the room. There was already the distinct smell of a smoked cigarette; it was often the scent he used to track down his best mate.

“I thought you were the head, and I can't really afford to get anymore suspensions.”

Stuart hummed in understanding, but said nothing. Their headmaster was always on John’s case, popping up when they'd least expect it, only to catch him in the act of some mischief and issue him a number of days suspension. Of course, John had learned his way around the system in his two years of being at the school, but there were still times when he could be caught off guard.

Luckily, the only slip of paper he was receiving this time was from Stuart, who handed it to him as he explained, “Here’s your new list.”

John eyed the paper with more visual confidence than he actually possessed but was able to make out a majority of the names on the list--it helped that Stuart’s handwriting was slightly neater than his own. His eyes briefly tracked down the list of names, looking for anything familiar or new. He was never really one to know his buyers personally, because, quite frankly, he didn't care. But he did like knowing whether his clientele was growing or not.

Stuart mostly kept track of such facets of their scheme. Buyers would approach him first, signing their souls over to John’s control by having their name written down on a torn sheet of paper. The dynamics were entirely unorganized and careless, but that was the beauty of it. Because they _weren’t_ a business. They performed sells in secrecy, and Stu was John’s right-hand man throughout the process. They duck out to Hamburg every few months and restock their stash, and when they got back, Stu collected the names and John sealed the deals. The routine was more addictive than the drug.

Immediately recognizing one name in particular, and not being surprised by this buyer’s dedication and loyalty, John shook his head and scoffed.

“Christ,” he said.

“What?” Stu asked as he lit a cigarette.

“Ivan’s on here…again.”

 

~ * ~

 

Minutes turned into hours, pencils scraping across paper turned into a continuous humming in his ears, and it all passed drearily until Paul found himself loitering outside of the boys’ bathroom waiting for Ivan. The halls were now empty, save for the pungent smell of cigarette smoke drifting beneath the crack of the closed bathroom door. The fumes pulled at his lungs and stung his eyes as if _he_ was the one puffing away on the little stick. He faintly hoped Ivan just wanted to meet outside the loo and not actually go in, exposing themselves more to the polluted air. But Paul wouldn’t openly complain either way.

The distinguishable patter of heavy boots ricocheted off of the metal lockers and made its way to Paul’s ears. On instinct, his head turned to search out the source of the sound until he saw a familiar thin figure rushing towards him down the hall. A small grin rested on his mouth as he tried to mask the increasing impatience with every minute of his friend’s absence.

Met with the epitome of dishevelment and labored breathing, Paul was about to offer some semblance of a greeting to Ivan before he was interrupted with an urgent slur of words. “‘Ey up, Paul! Let’s ‘ead in the loo for a mo’, yeah? Gotta see a friend.”

Without waiting for a response, Ivan jerked the bathroom door open, freeing more toxins into the stale hallway air. Paul tailed along after him, seeing no other option. Not being a smoker himself, Paul was too stunned by feeling like he walked into a brick wall to question the alarming redness of his friend’s eyes.

At the sound of rushed murmuring outside and the succeeding burst of flushed faces through the bathroom door, John yanked his head up from it’s resting position on one of the chipped mirrors behind him to stare daggers at his tardy guest. He stubbed out his ciggie on the adjacent wall, hopped from his perch on the porcelain sink, and immediately rounded on his younger friend.

“Fuckin’ Christ, Ivan, did ye get lost on the way ‘ere?” John said, his irritation as thick as the smoke in the room. “Yer not me only customer, y’know. ‘M a busy man n’ I ain’t got time ta be waitin’ on yer lollygaggin’ arse.” John snarled, narrowing his eyes and pointing a threatening finger at Ivan’s chest.

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. This was _not_ happening. Of course Ivan’s _friend_ had to be the one person Paul couldn’t get off of his mind, and simultaneously the one person he didn’t want to be there in the first place. _Fuck. My. Life,_ Paul thought cynically. _And what was that shit about being a “customer?” S’he runnin’ a fuckin’ barber shop in the stalls?_

Sticking to what he knew best, Paul hovered by the door where he had been stopped in his tracks at the sight and sound of that haunting boy. With his eyes on the floor and his heart in his throat, Paul studied the butt of a cigarette with which he so desperately wanted to trade places. However, he would probably be best suited to disappear altogether; because with his luck, John would still scope him out even if he were the tiniest bit of scum on the bathroom floor.

“Look, there’s no excuse, John--honestly. ‘M sorry, okay? But I got yer money for ‘em.” Ivan pleaded with his friend through a frenzy of glazed vision and wide eyes.

Apathetic to his troubled state, John continued in an agitated tone. “Yeah, yeah, save yer shite apologies, Ivy. You know how this works--jus’ show me yer quid so we can wrap this up.” He held out his hand in greedy anticipation, thrilling at his ability to make the boy squirm.

Ivan jumped to order by digging around in his trouser pockets and presenting a crumpled twenty pound note. As much as Paul hated to defy his defensive seclusion, his curiousity got the best of him, and he peeked at the odd transaction through the safety of his fringe. He had absolutely no bloody idea what he was witnessing. Maybe Ivan payed John for cigarettes he couldn’t buy himself? Whatever it was, Paul felt more than slightly out of place for being present.

John eyed the paper with a devious smirk and dollar bills for eyes before reaching within his own trouser pockets to pull out a small baggy. In a gesture similar to a secret handshake, John securely pressed the neatly wrapped bag into Ivan’s clammy palm.

“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” John said, smiling arrogantly and condescendingly patting Ivan’s cheek twice with his hand. The latter, however, seemed entirely unfazed by the degradation--moreso absorbed in the contents of a paradise wrapped in plastic.

Paul watched more attentively, enthralled in what could possibly make Ivan feel like he was the only person left in the room. Still unaware of the bystander lurking at the door and less than remotely interested in his client’s ecstasy, John turned his back to casually light another cigarette.

Ivan unravelled the bag in his hands enough to take out two little circular pills. Popping them in his mouth, he made his way over to one of the sinks at the wall and sipped some of the copper-tainted water straight from the tap. Paul tracked his friend’s every move in as much of a trance as Ivan, too befuddled to concern himself with being seen by the apparently infamous ted.

What he just witnessed was a drug deal; even a blind man could see that. A drug deal where his friend was the buyer, and his harasser was the supplier. Paul didn’t recognize the drug in question, having never been exposed to any in general, but he surmised it must be a hot sell with the way Ivan downed it like a starved man. This just added to the list of things about his day at school he would never breathe a word about to his father.

Ivan resurfaced with a content sigh, like he had drained the school’s entire water system. John cut his eyes for a glance accompanied by a smirk as the boy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“At the rate yer goin’, I’ll be seein’ you bright n’ early tomorrow mornin’, son,” John said.

Unperturbed, Ivan whipped around to face Paul, his features alight with something bright and burning. “‘Ey, Paul, you oughta try these, mate--they’re right blindin’! Can’t get ‘em nowhere else, neither, ‘less ye wanna go ta Hamburg. John, here’s the only one that sells ‘em.”

John frowned and turned to see whom Ivan was addressing. Only then, did he realize they were not alone. Suddenly, his urge to vacate the grotty loo decreased tenfold at the familiar sight in the corner.

“Well, well, well,” John began with a smug grin and a hungry look in his eyes, stubbing out his barely smoked cigarette, “don’t be shy over there. Johnny doesn’t bite….” He paused and tilted his head at an angle, seemingly searching for a deep memory that had actually been brimming at the surface of his mind all day. Returning his sharp gaze back to Paul, he added, “Oh wait…he does, doesn’t ‘e?”  

Paul silently cursed his friend for bringing him to attention. He was perfectly content with being neither seen nor heard as he waited for this deal to come to a close. Now, however, he forced himself to appear from the comfort of the shadows and more fully into the room.

With stern features, he decided to rise to the challenge this boy continuously thrived for, “Yeah, he does. _Hard_.” Paul knew he was exaggerating. The “bite” had been a mere nibble at best, even though he was loathe to label it as such. But if his offender was willing to bring it up, Paul had to take it one step further.

“Aw, poor thing,” coming closer with his mocking air, John reached for Paul’s ear, “want me ta kiss it better?”

“No thanks, you’ve done enough,” Paul said, frowning and slapping the hand away just as it made contact.

Leaning in, John murmured in a low tone, “Aye, and I could do a lot more if yer willin’.”

Before Paul could respond to the suggestive comment--having been momentarily caught off guard--Ivan butted in once again. Paul didn't have much experience with drug use of any kind, but he was doubtful about the instant kick-in of this drug. If it was anything like something as harmless as headache medication, it should take a while to show signs of effect. Was this some kind of placebo Ivan was creating for himself?

“So, Paul, ye wanna buy one of these bad boys from John?” Ivan began, interrupting with a rush of words. “Give it a go n’ see how ye fancy it?” He leaned against the sink with a fidgety foot tapping away at the tiled floor. “Oh, oh!--and Paul, this is John Lennon. John, this is Paul McCartney.” Ivan beamed, taking some kind of great satisfaction in formally introducing these two boys to each other.

Never averting his sultry eyes from the younger boy, John was the living and breathing definition of temptation. Sure, Paul was always warned about the drugs sold in grimy bathrooms or on street corners…but he was never warned about the brown-eyed ones who wore leather and held promises in their smiles. The real problem was that he had no idea which was more addictive.

“Yeah, Paulie, ye wanna try some? Ironically enough, these actually _don’t_ bite.”

Paul held John’s gaze, the intensity of it pressing an enticing hand on his back, pleading him to get lost in those swirling eyes. Then there was also that little devil on his shoulder, biting at his ear harder than John ever could--urging him to satisfy his hunger with the meal of a little brown pill. Paul rapidly blinked away the impulse--subsequently cutting the eye contact that could have controlled his every whim--and cleared his throat.

“What, um…what do they do? The pills?” he asked innocently. A Cheshire smile expanded across John’s face at the unmasked curiosity.

“I’m glad you asked.”

He moved towards Paul, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a conspiratorial gesture. Guiding Paul slowly forward, his hand disappeared back within his pocket, only to reveal another deftly wrapped baggy. With a jolt of satisfaction, he noticed how Paul did not draw away from his touch, but studied his every move as John removed one of his pills. In that moment, he had Paul right where he wanted him. Placing it in his palm between their conjoined bodies, John explained its effects.

“This little baby here, is a like a shot of adrenalin. Ye toss one back, and it’ll keep ye goin’ fer a few hours on end. That is, until it wears off n’ ye haf’ta take another one.” John felt a hand come to settle on his hip, and cut his eyes sideways to Paul, but saw that he kept his intrigued stare on John’s upturned palm. The mutual touch heightened his senses, but he decided not to comment on it for fear it would disappear.

“Who do ye sell ‘em to?” Paul asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“My, my, we’re an eager beaver, eh? Not workin’ for the bobbies, are ye?”

“No, no…I was just curious….”

“You know what they say about curiosity….”

“It killed the cat,” Paul finished half-heartedly. John grinned.

“Aye, but satisfaction brought it back.”  Lowering his voice and gesturing towards the pill, he added, “And this isn’t the only thing I can give you that brings satisfaction, if yer so…” pausing to eye Paul up and take a deep breath, he finally sighed, _“_ _curious….”_

Parting his lips, Paul studied John’s gaze--how the other’s eyes moved across Paul’s face-- and analyzed his words. This morning, he had thought that all of John’s lewd comments were strictly teasing. Now, however, he saw something in those half-mast eyes--something almost… _genuine_.

“Well, John mostly sells to the kids around ‘ere who need a little boost when they’re runnin’ low on energy from their studies n’ whatnot. That’s what my deal is, anyroad. But he also pushes to blokes in bands try’na stay up on the stage all night.” The words came out a mile a minute and were enough to startle Paul into removing a hand he must have subconsciously placed on John, and he broke free from him entirely.

Forgetting Ivan was still there, and annoyed by the interruption, John found himself unable to hide his irritation. “Christ, Ivan, what’re ye stalkin’ me, mate? He asked _me_ ,” he grumbled as he lit yet another cigarette.

“Right, right, sorry John--sorry.”

John simply rolled his eyes in response.

“Hey, Ivan, ye ready to go, mate?” Paul asked bluntly, becoming increasingly uncomfortable by the second.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, mate--let’s go,” Ivan said as he pushed himself from the sink and made for the door without pause for thought.

Christ, this lad was going to be a pain in the arse to deal with. He was already acting like he had just injected sugar straight into his bloodstream, and they haven’t even left the building yet. A lot really _had_ changed while Paul was gone. His friend was doing drugs, there was apparently some kind of new druglord who enjoyed unabashedly flirting with him, and not to mention people thought he had _died_ _._ These past eight hours have contained more excitement than he’s ever had in his life. Not that it was good excitement….

As he begrudgingly followed Ivan, who was already thousands of miles away in his own head, towards the door, a firm hand grasped his shoulder.

“Paul, wait!” The urgent cry came from behind him. He turned to face John, who had this concerned look on his face that seemed so foreign on his usually unreadable features.

“Uh…yeah?” Paul asked. Ivan had already left the room, probably making his way to the bus none the wiser that Paul wasn’t at his side.

Willing himself not to let the younger boy’s innocent look have too much of an effect on him, John grabbed Paul’s hand and placed the pill he still held into it. “Hold onto this one. I’ll let ye have it for free. In case ye feel… _curious_ again.” He smiled and winked at him.

Uncertain, Paul frowned and looked at the pill. It all seemed so innocent, but seeing the effects it had on Ivan made his stomach clench. However, he found it easier to accept the odd offering rather than arguing over it. He didn’t actually have to _take it_ _,_ after all. Sticking it in his trouser pocket, he replied with a quiet, “yeah…uh, thanks.” Giving John one more once-over, he turned and left the bathroom.  

John bit his lip as he watched him go. _Paul_ _,_ he tossed the name around in his head--letting it bounce off of the walls of his mind like a tennis match. Paul--his latest addiction; his next victim of corruption. Had there ever been a better name? Sweet and simple and rolled off of his tongue like honey. This boy stirred something within John that had remained stagnant for an uncertain number of years. There was an innocence about Paul that John itched to change.

Oh, this was going to be fun. John knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Chasing these feelings and following his feral instincts had always been John’s forte. Granted, most of those decisions turned out to be bad ones…but this may very well be the best bad decision he’s ever made.

Giving Paul that pill had been a calculated move. He didn’t need another client--hell, he had them lined up around the block. There were blokes (and sometimes birds) from other cities jumping the fence of the school after hours just to get a hit of his mini motivator. So no, it wasn't about hooking a potential buyer; he had seen that familiar hungry look in Paul’s eye. The one that craved something new and exciting. He didn’t know how he had never crossed paths with Paul, but he’d merge those roads now. Curiosity turned into addiction, and John was the only source that could feed Paul’s. Yes, he was going to see Paul again. He’d make _sure_ of that.

 

~ * ~

 

The door slammed behind him, rattling the windows in their frames while a familiar, homey scent drifted to Paul’s olfactory senses. Working for a good many months in a bar with the tangy smell of smoke and alcohol assaulting his lungs, Paul had forgotten the smell of fresh linens and freshly brewed tea permeating his old home on Forthlin Road.

“Mike!” Making his way to the kitchen in search for his kid brother, Paul awaited an answer that didn’t come.

“Mikey!” He tried again as he made for the counter where a note caught his eye.

Frowning, Paul read the careless scribbles informing him Mike had permission to be at a friend’s house until dinner time. Paul smiled, reminiscing on the liberating feeling of roaming the suburban neighborhoods with his small gaggle of mates when he was only eight himself. The loss and move had both taken a rather large emotional toll on his younger brother. The boy cried for weeks, clambering into his older brother’s arms in the middle of the night when the monsters under his bed moved into his head and became too difficult to bear on his own. Paul would never admit to the horrid images he saw in his own dreams, too busy holding his brother as he wept. He braved silent tears and sleepless nights for Mike’s own tranquility. Seeing him reestablish friendships as they tried to move forward in their lives warmed Paul’s heart.

After checking his watch, Paul realized it was only four o’clock now. Mike had plenty of time left to be a kid.

Whistling a tune for the first time in what felt like months, Paul went upstairs to his room. He sat his school bag on his desk, and flopped onto his bed. With a sigh, he crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

Hesitantly digging in his pocket--for he knew what he’d find--he took out the pill that weighed equivalent to a brick in his hand. It was so little yet so much. Holding it between his thumb and forefinger above his face, he studied it with inquisitive eyes and a slight frown. An odd part of him got a thrill just from knowing he possessed something so forbidden.

_How much harm could really come from something so small?_

He recalled the way Ivan animatedly spoke about nonsense topics without letting Paul get a word in. After a while, he just shut up and let his friend blabber away. But besides the annoying hyperactivity, he guessed the pill could have its benefits. Why would so many people buy it, otherwise?

Deciding to have no further affiliation with the little vein-burster for the time being, Paul made his way back into the kitchen so he could conceal it properly. He remembered them keeping a type of plastic wrap used for leftovers and whatnot, and prayed it would still be in the same cabinet as a year ago. With mentally crossed fingers, Paul opened the cabinet to reveal exactly what he was looking for. He quickly tore off a small piece of the material and wrapped it around his tiny pill for safer keeping.

The sound of the front door opening followed by heavy footsteps frightened Paul, and he hastened his movements further, pocketing the pill just before his father walked into the kitchen. With a smile only a guilty criminal could possess, Paul spun on his heels in a pace as rapid as his heartbeats. Jim gave his son a questioning look, but had no time to verbalize his thoughts because of Paul’s interruption.

“Hey, Da’, hope you had a good day. I'm gonna be in my room, okay?” he said, more concerned about saving his own hide than the quality of his dad’s day. The old man wasn't even supposed to be home yet.

Without waiting for approval or a response of any kind, Paul climbed the stairs to his room two at a time. And only when he felt the solid wood of his bedroom door resting against his back, did he relieve an anxious breath he’d been holding since his father walked in the door. The burning in his chest was enough to let him know he was playing with fire. As he tucked the sloppily wrapped pill beneath the socks in one of his dresser drawers, Paul could only hope that the flames wouldn't scar him too badly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is still enjoying this fic! I have mixed feelings about it, but that could just be because I'm constantly having to read and edit it. I've been slaving over it lately so that I can update fairly regularly. 
> 
> Also, I forgot to mention that the inspiration for the title and somewhat for the fic (but mainly just the title) came from the song "The Pusher" by Steppenwolf. It's a great song if you haven't heard it.

At every sound of heavy footsteps making their way onto the bus, John would jerk his head away from whatever meaningless conversation his friends were having and to the entrance of the bus with a hopeful anticipation. Each time, he was only slightly more disappointed, double-checking each new arrival just to be sure. After feeling more and more like a desperate bird, John decided to turn his attention to the story Pete was sharing about his detention. He needed to keep his cool about this situation. Just keep his cool about Paul.

Well, it was easy enough to convince himself of it until the boy himself actually stepped on the bus. At the sight of Paul, and with the succeeding knowledge that it actually _was_ him, John pulled himself to his feet and ignored the curious calls from his friends behind him. In the time it took Paul to plant himself into his seat, John was already right behind him. However, instead of taking the inviting space beside the younger boy, John took pleasure in looming over him for a minute--watching gleefully as Paul met his eyes with a mix of dread and irritation.

But as soon as eye contact was made and Paul saw whom he already knew would be standing there, he quickly turned his head to the window at his right. He purposely sat closer to the front today in hopes he could slip into a seat with John being none the wiser. Once again, his lucky stars seem to have smoldered out.

John, on the other hand, was on cloud nine. Considering part of him assumed the stunning lad wasn't even going to ride the bus today, John would deem this his lucky day. Selfishly ignoring Paul’s misery, John smiled down at him as he stuck a knee onto the seat.

“Mind if I sit? Can't have Betty up there thinkin’ I'm harassin’ the riders,” he said, tilting his head towards the aforementioned beast of a woman.

Without turning to face John, Paul scoffed and responded, “Funny, cause that's exactly what you're doing.”

“Aye, but we can't ‘ave _her_ knowin’ that.” John plopped himself into the empty space beside Paul. “Besides, I wouldn’t really call this harassment.”

“Oh? And what _would_ you call it, then? Flirting? Quite a weak attempt, mate, I must say.”

“Is that an invitation to try harder, then?”

“It’s an invitation to quit while you’re ahead.”

John couldn’t help but laugh a little louder than intended. He wrapped his arm around the back of the seat, grinning madly and ducking his head to attempt making eye contact with Paul who had his nose to the window. He loved when they played hard to get….

“Why so grumpy, love? Did ye not take the little happy pill I gave you?” An amused smirk adorned his lips as John used his left hand to gently grasp Paul’s chin and will his face towards his.

Paul flinched at the touch, no matter how delicate it was, but his head followed that hand on its own accord. While his body was busy defying his better judgement, his mind was catching up to John’s insatiable inquisitiveness.

“I didn't, actually. And I don't plan to, either.” Paul said, his pristine reputation resting proudly on his shoulders. The bad boy’s touch may be able to make him flush all over, but his tongue yielded a sharp blade.

Paul didn't plan to share the secret of why he was really in a sour mood. John didn't need to know Paul had lied awake in bed until the wee hours of the morning, unable to sleep if his life depended on it. There was truly no explanation for his restlessness. He had stared at the ceiling and kept an ear out for just one thing that could lull him to sleep. Maybe the running of his fan, or the chirping of the nocturnal critters outside his window--but nothing worked. It was just one of those nights where the sheets couldn't find the strength to keep him still. He wanted to convince himself it was first-week jitters, but the bloke beside him on the bus spoke of a different story.

Neither the grin on John's face nor the fingers on Paul’s chin fell. John even went as far as to subtly stroke the skin at his fingertips. He shamelessly alternated between studying Paul’s eyes and lips, cataloguing each to memory for the time when he would be apart from the boy. He admired the sharp contrast between his two arguably favorite features on the young boy’s face. A pink tint colored the swell of his lips, while a swirl of green and brown clashed beautifully in his large eyes. The mass of those globes along with the long drapes of black eyelashes expanding from them only added to Paul's sweet air of innocence.

Sighing from the overwhelming flurry of lust, John ducked his head slightly closer.

Lowering his voice for more of an effect, he said, “Oh, but you will. You'll go home one day, and it'll be waitin’ for ye by her bedside or in her sock drawer. Maybe it'll be a week from now, or hell, maybe it'll even be tonight. But that little thing is gonna start calling yer name: Paul...Paul...Paul.” He leaned in towards Paul’s ear, whispering the name in the very same way it echoed through John’s mind. A hushed prayer; a quiet promise.

All the while, Paul sat silent--never breaking eye contact and holding onto each syllable of John's words. It's not that he believed what the older boy said to be true; after all, Paul knew the extent of his willpower. But the way John spoke to him, the tone of his voice and the proximity of his words, had a hypnotizing effect over Paul’s being. It didn't help that he had failed to throw the prellie away once it was in his possession…. It made him feel as if John’s little premonition was already proving true. Paul wouldn’t be surprised if John could sniff out such an incongruity in his pristine image.

Unheeded by Paul’s silence, John pressed on, “And when it starts mocking you from its cage, yer gonna cave. They all do. They’ll toss it back, and come crawlin’ to Johnny the next morning. So there’s no use in being afraid of the inevitable. But you _can_ get a head-start on it.” With that, he lowered his hand from Paul’s chin and studied the boy’s frozen gaze with suppressed glee.

Paul was shell-shocked; the only movement being made was the minimal flicking of his eyes, alternating between looking at John's left and right one. He hated the power that words held. He was a fairly impressionable lad, and a little peer pressure went a long way for him. And now there seemed to be so many more influences than there were a year ago.

The confidence and certainty with which John spoke bothered Paul more than the words themselves. Surely, there couldn’t be as many willing and vulnerable buyers as John was leading him to believe. John was just a determined salesman and Paul was just his next pitch. That’s all it was. At least, that’s all he could convince himself it was.

John leaned forward slightly, noticing that far off look in Paul’s eyes. The look of a thinker. Amused, he snapped his fingers before the boy’s face. Paul visibly started, jerking himself back into the present.

“See anything good while you were away?” John asked with a smug grin.

Paul stared at John with stiff features, as if he had suddenly appeared before his eyes. If he hadn’t already been lost within his own head, John’s words certainly had him feeling that way now.

“What?” he asked.

“In that pretty little head of yers. Any good flicks playin’ in there?” John tapped the side of Paul’s head while the latter jerked away from the pestering touch.

“Unlike you, my head’s not hollow enough for that,” Paul said, raising to his feet as he saw the bus finally coming to a stop at the school.

He was hoping to make it across John’s obstructive form and off of the bus without further unwanted conversation, but he should have known (even in the little time he’s known the other lad) John wouldn’t make anything easy on him. The ted also sprang to his feet at the sight of Paul’s attempted fleet. He placed his hand on the top of the seat in front of them, effectively keeping Paul toe-to-toe with him in the confined space of the two-person seat. Thrilled with their close proximity, Lennon wore a trademark grin that clashed with Paul’s annoyed frown.

“What, no goodbye kiss?” John asked.

“Christ, you’re repulsive,” Paul said, pushing past the teddy boy who was turning out to be more of a nuisance than a threat by this point. John frowned and dramatically clutched his heart as he fell back into the seat from Paul’s nudge.

“Oh, you wound me so, you heartbreaker, you!” Remembering the beginning of their conversation at the last minute, John jumped back to his feet and yelled after Paul’s retreating back. “Don’t forget to take yer meds today, love!”

The only answer he received came from that same old brute of a driver. “Get off me bloody bus, Lennon.”

John rolled his eyes and involuntarily scrunched up his face at the sickeningly familiar voice. “Fuckin’ waste of space,” he muttered to himself.

“What was that, son?” the woman snarled back. Apparently working for years as a bus driver for teenagers generated ears like a hawk.

“Said, ye’ve got a lovely _face_ ,” John attempted to mend without even having to pause for thought. “Them craters really bring out yer eyes, ye know.” He mockingly batted his eyelashes at her and leaped off of the steps of the bus before any blunt objects could be hurled at him.

Once he made it to the safety of the school grounds, he smoothed his DA back and scoured the yard for a certain smartly-dressed schoolboy. Catching sight of the younger boy just before he walked through the school doors, John let a small smile grace his lips. Who could really blame his heart for doing a silly thing like flutter when Paul turned his head at the last second and locked eyes with John?

 

~ * ~

 

Twelve o’clock found Paul cautiously balancing a styrofoam tray overflowing with bangers and mash. That was the only identifiable thing on his plate, anyway. He honestly didn't even want such a large serving, but one of the middle-aged lunch ladies gave him a wink and a heaping spoonful. Paul gave her a tight smile in return and hoped it hid the whelm of nausea she gave him. George just glared at Paul, and the older of the two had a rather large hunch that his skinny friend was more upset about Paul’s extra serving than his unwanted attention.

Smiling at his friend’s deprivation, Paul set their course towards their seats from the previous day. He stopped short, however, when he noticed a group of leather-clad roughnecks.

_Christ, does everyone at this school dress the same?_ Paul was literally knocked out of the thought when he felt George bump into him from the sudden halt in step.

Frowning, the younger lad asked, “Something wrong?”

“Umm...no, no--just uh…,” Paul trailed off, having no excuse to finish his thought with. Instead, he moved forward, feeling the confused frown George wore behind his back--feeling several pairs of eyes boring into the side of his face, tracking across his body like millions of tiny spiders. It was enough to make Paul itch in his own skin and deem himself a coward for his hasty retreat from confrontation. A snicker or two followed them to their new choice of seating, and Paul tried not to let an unfounded embarrassment overcome him.

Clearing his head and then his throat as he sat down, Paul asked, “So, um…how’s yer day been?” It felt rather forced, and his friendship with George was anything but. He knew they would ease into a fluid conversation soon enough, though.

“Got caned this morning,” George said nonchalantly, proffering the offended appendage to his friend across the table while shoveling food into his gob with the other. Paul hissed in empathy for the often soft-spoken lad, gently touching the cuts and bruises across the knuckles of his left hand. Those fuckers always made sure you never had an excuse not to complete your work by caning non-dominant hands. Save for the time one inconsiderate cunt assumed Paul was a righty and instead beat his left hand purple.

“Shit, Geo, what’d ye do?” Paul asked. He failed to hide the amused smirk and tone.

“Kept talkin’ when the teacher told me to shut it, didn’t I? And me da’s gonna be hearin’ about it, too. Can hardly move me ‘and thanks to the bastard.” He slowly flexed his bruised hand, clenching and unclenching his fist as the scars drew taut across his skin. Paul shook his head and started on his own meal.

“Aww, can’t go running to mummy and daddy after every wee slap o’ the wrist.”

“This,” he pointed to his hand and gave Paul a stern look, “ain’t wee.” The older boy shrugged it off, knowing George recognized his teasing.

“What happened to quiet ol’ Georgie I left down here, anyway?” Paul smiled, all charm and sincerity.

“Dead and gone, mate.”

Paul smiled but said no more. As a brief silence fell upon them, he looked down at his plate and pushed around the inedible parts of his meal. After reflecting on their previous conversation, a sudden question he forgot was tucked away in the folds of his mind pushed itself forward.

“Hey, what were all of these rumors about me dying about?” He abandoned rearranging his food and looked up, placing his chin in his palm with genuine curiosity.

“Oh,” George broke off with a laugh that turned into a cough. “Yeah, that. Crazy rumors, those.”

Paul glanced at his watch, noting, “I’ve got about twenty minutes to hear about ‘em.” George huffed, wanting to find a good footing for the conversation. He wished there was a more elaborate story than the truthful one. The truth was never as exciting.

“There’s not much to tell, really. It mainly started with our mates, ye know. All this: _Where’s Paul gone off, eh?_ and _What’s ‘appened to Paul? Killed off, has he?_ Sort of joking stuff like that--but I guess word got around and people ran with it. You were gone long enough for people to assume you died, so they did.”

Paul stayed quiet, seemingly lost in his own thoughts--imagining the things said about him, the people worrying.  _Did_ they worry? What do people say about an introverted boy like himself? He practically had the opportunity to attend his own funeral but was several miles away.

“Doesn’t take much around ‘ere, like. We’re a boring town and people love good stories,” George continued. He hadn’t noticed the far away gaze in his older mate’s big eyes, too caught up in his own retelling.

Paul’s mind hooked the word boring out of the air, reeling it ashore to flounder amidst his thoughts. _Boring._ The word itself was so bland and uninviting. _Bland…Boring…Banal._ All harsh B’s and drawn out vowels--allowing the opportunity to elongate the word into a lifeless infinity. _Boooooooooring._

_Am I boring?_

Never had he summoned such a thought. Before he left, Paul’s days were filled with Scouts trips, guitar practice, garden chats with his mum. But just yesterday, he merely worked on his studies after nearly being caught with drugs by his father. And that was the most interesting thing to have happened in a year.

_Maybe I did die…._

Never had he intended to voice the thought concerning his own vapidity, either.

“Pardon?” George asked, thrown off guard by such a sudden yet soft-spoken question.

_No going back now._ “Just, um…am-am I boring?” Fuck, why had he even opened his mouth and nose-dived into his misery yet again. Paul was becoming convinced he was a masochist who loved a good pity party.

“Paul.” The way George said his name made Paul look up from the piece of styrofoam he was tearing from his tray. It was spoken with an amount of authority he didn’t know his innocent friend possessed. “ _Seriously_ , mate?” Paul sat befuddled, feeling as though he’d said something wrong. He was fairly certain he had insulted himself, not his friend.

“Yer one of the most exciting blokes I know. Not many people get on with me sense of humor,ye know, but yer right there, mate!” George spoke so optimistically that Paul couldn’t help but catch his contagious grin, shyly producing one of his own. “Jesus, Paul, I was crushed when ye up and left with no explanation.” He lightly chuckled and reached across the table to nudge Paul’s shoulder. The act created a similar laugh, and George relaxed at seeing the light come back into Paul’s eyes.

“Where is all this coming from, eh?” He decided to ask, wanting to clear the deck while the discussion was still on the table. Paul sighed, his posture slumping with the weight of it.

“Don’t know, really,” he mumbled. “Things have felt different since I got back. Everything’s backwards, and I’m facing forwards trying to find a place to fit…. It’s stupid,” he ended on. The only thing worse than feeling the way he did was trying to express it. Ultimately, describing it as being dropped into the middle of the ocean without knowing how to swim was the simplest illustration of such an impalpable feeling.

“It’s right here, Paul!” George exclaimed, sweeping his arms along the empty table. “This table is exactly where you fit in. Don’t feel bad, cause it’s where I fit in, too. Forget about Ivan and those other drugged-out ponces.” George gave him another smile, this time showing his fang-like teeth.

“Yeah.” He grinned back, incapable of doing or saying much else. George noticed something caught in the back of Paul’s mind. Could practically see it bugging around behind his doe-eyes.

“What d’ye say I come by this afternoon and we work on some chords? I could show you some new ones I’ve learned, yeah?” He suggested hopefully, wanting to deflect Paul’s unspoken, pestering thoughts and get him back into the swing of normality. Or as much normality as a friend could provide.

Paul perked up at that, noting his friend’s effort. “Alright, yeah--I’d like that.” George nodded and turned his attention back to the food he left untouched.

“Hey, George, can I ask you a question?” Paul asked, nervously picking at the skin around his fingernails. When George hummed his approval, Paul continued quietly, uncertainly, “Is…is that John fellow a queer?”

George nearly choked on the bite of toast he took. Paul would have laughed had he not been concerned for his mate’s safety…and answer. After he recovered, he managed to offer an explanation to Paul’s wide-eyed look of confusion.

After taking a sip from his drink, George responded, chuckling, “Christ, Paul, no need to be so secretive about it.” He shook his head, laughing while Paul frowned. “Look, John’s…John. I don’t know ‘im too well, just know what I’ve heard. What I’ve _heard_ is he doesn’t like labels or some such shite.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Guess he just doesn’t care what people think about ‘im in that, erhm…department.”

Paul slowly nodded his head, mulling over this new information. “So…‘e’s never been sent to prison or anything? Nobody’s knockin’ ‘im around fer makin’ it with blokes?”

“Mate, look around us, over half of the people in this cafeteria _alone_ are buyin’ _somethin’_ from John. They turn him in, they lose the high. Part of the reason he doesn’t hide it is probably because them prellies are protectin’ ‘im.”

_How is that fair? Why does he get a free pass just because he sells that shit?_

Paul thought better of telling George about his own free sample from John. If this George was anything like the one he left a year ago, he’d be met with a look of disappointment and a minor lecture--two things he neither wanted nor needed.

Taking Paul’s silence as a cue to fill in the lapse, George continued, “Plus, John’s not a softie, right? The bloke knows how to hold his own. I’ve seen ‘im fightin’ a bloke in the yard fer callin’ ‘im queer and a fag and stuff.” Thinking it over, he added, “But I also heard the other lad was peeved cause John wouldn’t sell anything to ‘im when he was short on cash.”

After a beat, Paul said, “Yeah, well…he’s still been kinda messin’ with me. Just wanted to know what his deal was, s’all.”

“Careful there, mate. John tends to go for the whole sweet and innocent look, ye know,” George teased with a smile, wiggling his bushy eyebrows.

“Shurrup,” Paul said, trying to hide his own smile…and blush.

“Seriously, though. Watch out fer that one, yeah? Trouble, he is,” George warned lightly, not wanting to come off as too overbearing. He always felt daft when giving Paul life advice; the other boy was older and never failed to remind George of it.

Paul nodded but said no more. He purposefully withheld the details and frequency of each encounter with John thus far. He didn’t need his friend’s foreboding words when the knot in his stomach spoke greater volumes. The only problem was that the pull in his gut was more exciting than the words of caution.

Paul wished he had an explanation as to why his last thought was: _Oh shit…._

 

~ * ~

 

“Ohh, shit…,” John breathed. “Fuck--mmm, close, _close_.” He harshly tugged at the dark locks kneeling in front of him behind the school. Not long after his warning, he came with a sound lost somewhere between a moan and a whine. Though, he'd never admit he was capable of the latter.

While the rest of the school was busy chowing down in the cafeteria, John decided to satisfy a different type of hunger elsewhere.

After zipping himself up, John slumped against the brick wall, contently spent (for the moment, anyway). His prick-licking participant sat back on his heels and rubbed at his jaw, loosening the ache that made it feel like a rusted door hinge. Ache somewhat subsided, he stood up.

“You spoil me Stuey, you really do,” John said as he rested his head against the cool bricks.

“Whatever, Lennon. But if ye ever breathe a word about this to Astrid, ye won’t be havin’ nothing down there to be sucked,” Stuart said, his tone far from biting. He knew John would be the last person to rat him out about his occasional payment methods for John’s pills. It never hurt to remind the lad, though.

Stu held out his hand while John lazily rooted around in his jacket pockets for the order. It was a noticeably larger order than the ones he usually dealt, unless he was selling to recreational users or blokes in bands. His friend shook the bag once it was in his possession, rattling the pills and enjoying the clinking sound.

“Why’d ye want so many this time, anyroad?” John asked, lighting a fag.

Stu looked up from the distraction he’d found in tossing the pills around and said, “Besides a few for myself, Astrid’s mum wants a fill. Yer prices are cheaper than what she had to pay in Germany, so Astrid asked me to get some for ‘er.”

“Well yer business is very much appreciated,” John said with a wink. He then frowned, realizing the problem with his preferred method of payment this time around. “Y’know, I could’ve gotten paid a fuckload this time if I hadn’t asked ye to suck me off.” He clicked his teeth with a shake of his head, knowing it was too late to go back now.

Stuart grinned, satisfied with himself for choosing an ache in his jaw over a hole in his wallet. “Y’know, if ye just got yerself a nice lad, ye wouldn’t need yer buyers to keep doin’ it for you.”

“Aye, I know that. I’m actually workin’ on that at the moment.” John smiled mischievously but contradicted it with a shy glance towards the ground.

“Oh really, now? Mr. One Night Stand is finally lookin’ to settle down?” Stu needled, not attempting to hide his amusement and shock. John had been a lad lover ever since Stuart had known him, but he only heard of him having night-time trysts--never the one to settle into a relationship with another boy. He assumed John thought that kind of thing was just too soft.

John rolled his eyes, blowing smoke up into the air. “Christ, ‘m not gettin’ married, mate. Just got my eyes on a bloke, s’all.” He suddenly regretted even telling his friend about his recent obsession. He’d always been one to shamelessly flirt, but telling Stuart (another bloke, no less) about his latest love interest made him feel a bit daft, like a bird fawning over her crush at a sleepover.

Noticing the early stages of construction of John’s wall, Stuart tried to mend the annoyance quickly. “Aw, c’mon, mate. I’m just takin’ the mick.” He patted at John’s shoulder, the auburn-haired boy looking up with something akin to hesitance. Stu let a reassuring and mischievous grin creep onto his face. “A sight for sore eyes, then, is he?”

“A sight for _my_ sore eyes.” He fixed Stu with a pointed look. “So keep yers off and on yer Kraut skirt.” Stuart scoffed.

“Afraid of a little competition, Johnny?” Sutcliffe smirked. “What would I want with your latest catch, anyway? All mouth of a sailor and sultry eyes, I assume?.”

“And with the mouth of a sailor, he’d still have less semen in it than you had ‘bout five minutes ago.”

Stuart glared at him and John barely had time to dodge the kick aimed at his shin. Successfully unharmed, he smiled and prided himself on the pun and well-crafted insult. Unamused, Sutcliffe lit himself a fag. They stood in companionable silence until their eyes locked with a naughty spark alighting between them.

“Face?” Stuart asked, beginning what had become a small game with them over the years.

“Ten, easy. Bloody gorgeous,” John answered, frowning as if it shouldn’t have even been a question.

“Arse?”

“45 degrees flaming. So round and tight and _God--_ he wears these posh fuckin’ trousers, but I--”

“Alright, alright--don't make me get the hose on you,” Stuart said, already getting uncomfortable when his friend started making gestures to better describe this mystery boy’s backside. John sighed as he calmed down.

“Look, all I'm sayin’ is, the boy would look killer in a pair of drainies.” John made a mental note to coerce the younger lad into a pair of those tight pants that would leave even less to his imagination.

Shaking his head with a smile, Stu continued their game. “Personality?”

John faltered at this, knowing that his McCartney fantasy was as pristine as the clothes he wore. They were practically the antithesis of one another, he and Paul. Lennon was gruff inside and out. Otherwise, numerous times in his life, he would’ve been beaten in the schoolyard and left on the curb, the echoing of leather boots on gravel and slurs of “dirty queer” his only parting words. He’d built a reputation, and he would slave to mold that of others before he tore down his own.

Meanwhile, Paul seemed to live and breathe order. The features of his face didn’t even provide him the satisfaction of hiding away his good nature. Paul was the cookie-cutter image of any parents’ ideal boyfriend for their daughter: polite, posh, and pristine. But as gorgeous and tempting as he was in John’s eyes, too, he always came off as defensive and hostile towards the auburn-haired boy. Though it was a fun game to play for the latter, Lennon ached to unmask the free-spirited nature Paul withheld from himself.

“‘E’s a bit of a stick in the mud, but nothing ol’ Johnny can’t fix. There’s never been a shell I couldn’t crack,” John said smugly.

“Always up for a challenge, eh?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” John grinned, wistfully staring off into the schoolyard. He could picture it in the mornings and after school, crawling with students who all looked the same--teds or nerds. But there was one that stood out in John’s mind, and he knew tracking him down in a sea of leathers and tweed would become just another daily addiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recognize a familiar rumor? Yeah, I decided to put in a brief reference to the whole "Paul is dead" bullshit. Thank you all for reading and for the support you've been giving this fic! Please let me know if you have suggestions, requests, or just comments in general. They're very helpful and give me ideas on what else I can add. Another update will hopefully coming soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter needs a little explanation. First of all, it's hella long, and I'm sorry if that's a turn off. If you guys would prefer shorter chapters, please let me know. I like to try and find a good place to leave off with every chapter but also not make them too short.
> 
> Secondly, the main purpose of this chapter is to establish how important the brotherly bond between Paul and Mike is. I really want to show this paternal sense of duty that Paul has over him. So, I apologize if all of it is a bore, but I promise I put it in here for a reason.
> 
> Finally, the thing with Mike's shoes constantly being untied will have an explanation in future chapters. I know it seems kinda random and odd right now, but I think it'll be heartwarming when it's revealed.
> 
> While you guys are reading this, I'll be writing my ass off so I can stay ahead of myself. Hope you enjoy!

“Paulie! Paulie! Paulie!”

“Mikey! Mikey! Mikey!”

Paul had been enjoying a cup of tea at the kitchen table while reading over an assignment for school when the cheerful cry came from the front door. It was quickly followed by the slam of the front door and the familiar patter of shoelaces slapping hardwood. A beaming Mike appeared at the kitchen threshold, panting and beaming with childish glee. It reminded Paul of when Mike would burst into the room on Christmas morning, a smile jollier than St. Nick himself and a bedhead that would make a rat’s nest jealous. And as he did at those times, Paul still grinned at him with brotherly adoration. The kid was just too cute.

“Lookie! Lookie! Lookie!” After pausing for dramatic effect, Mike decided he had stood in the doorway long enough and rushed to his brother’s side, waving a piece of paper in his hand.

“Whatie? Whatie? Whatie?” Paul asked, effecting a tone similar to Mike’s simply to humor the young boy. He slid his school books farther down the table to make room for the paper Mike slapped down before him.

While Paul skimmed over the words on the paper, Mike bit at the grin on his lips and practically squirmed where he stood. He hadn’t really known what the note said when the teacher sent it home with him because he couldn’t read the cursive handwriting, but she assured him that all was well. He knew Paul would be able to decipher it, and above all else, he wanted him to be the first to see, anyway.

The smile on Paul’s face and the glow in his eyes grew as he got further down the letter. Until he got to the last few sentences, that is. His gut twisted itself and his brain clicked off everything that wasn’t those words at the end of the page: _So sorry for your loss. Please let us know if there is anything we can do for Michael or your family._ Paul looked away from the paper and at a spot in the middle of the table, lost in some kind of recurring heartache.

He quickly realized, however, that this was a joyous occasion for Mike who probably hadn’t even read the letter to begin with. Snapping himself from his trance, he restored himself to the previous lightheartedness. He turned to his brother and smiled brightly, receiving the same in return.

“So my little brother’s already gettin’ good marks, is he? Looks like yer becoming a bit of a teacher’s pet, eh?” Paul playfully prodded at his brother’s stomach, getting him to show off a few missing teeth around his smile. With one tooth on the top row missing and another on the bottom, the sight was even more endearing.

Mike giggled as he squirmed from his brother’s fingers and nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! She even said I could be first in line for lunch tomorrow.”

“Well, this certainly calls for a celebration!” Paul said, slamming his hands on the table as a declaration of approval and getting to his feet. Mike followed his movements with wonder as the chair screeched across the floor.

“Really?!”

“Why, of course, my little bookworm,” Paul said. He then picked up his little brother, planting him over his left shoulder as he made his way towards the front door. Michael laughed hysterically, getting a rush from looking at the floor from such a high angle. “You, my young prodigy, get dairy treats of the highest quality!”

Bouncing slightly from his brother’s quick pace, Mike tried to speak between his giggles. “Wha’s tha’ mean?”

Paul smiled at his innocence and patted his brother’s legs that he held protectively to his chest. “It means ice cream, ye nutter. And don’t go tellin’ Da’ about it, or he’ll have me hide for ruinin’ yer dinner.”

When they made it out the front door, Paul placed Mike safely on the ground.

“I won’t tell. Scout’s honor!” Mike crossed his heart and saluted Paul.

“Ye didn’t finish Scouts, Mikey.” Paul rose an eyebrow and ruffled his hair. Mike frowned.

“So,” the eight-year-old pouted, “I still get to use the honor.” Paul shook his head and made to turn around when his brother stopped him. “Can I get on yer shoulders?!”

Paul sighed and looked around, weighing the request. Heaving out the pent up air, he fell helpless to his brother’s innocent charm and perfectly timed eyelash-batting. “Sure, why not.” Carrying him would be safer than risking a fall thanks to his loose shoe strings.

He squatted down so that Mike’s climb would be easier. When he felt the added weight begin to pile on, Paul steadied himself with a hand to the pavement. “Easy there, kiddo. Don’t wanna start lookin’ like the Hunchback of Notre Dame here.” He shakily rose to his feet whilst gripping his brother’s ankles.

“Hehe, sorry.” He patted the thick dark hair below him; Paul saw it as more of condescending act than a form of apology. Refocusing on their desired goal, Mike’s eight-year-old body was practically already sitting at a bar-stool at their local ice cream shop. “To the shops!” he exclaimed with a point into the general direction of said shop.

Mimicking his imaginative brother’s voice, Paul matched his enthusiasm, shouting, “To the shops!” With his little brother sat firmly on his shoulders, Paul began their trek into town, listening to the younger one animatedly recall his day at school.

 

~ * ~

 

Paul forgot just how long of a walk into town it was from their house. By the time they arrived to the ice cream parlor, Paul’s back had a dull ache. His brother wasn’t heavy by any means, but walking up and down hills with the added weight was not an easy feat.

Nonetheless, Paul waltzed the two of them into the store and straight to the counter. Placing his hands on the counter, he grinned at the friendly-looking waiter. “Two scoops for the lad on top, please,” Paul said, trying to smile up at his brother from the awkward angle.

“And what flavor will it be, son?” The man behind the counter asked. He was wearing some kind of striped get-up. The whole shop emanated a nostalgic atmosphere, almost making Paul feel as though he’d never left Liverpool in the first place.

Michael seemed to be caught in some kind of internal crisis, deciding between the row of flavors he could see from this advantageous height. The options were endless, all of them tempting the child with their varying colors. It was truly more than his young palette could handle. Frowning in thought, Mike pointed to mint and an ambiguously labeled _‘rainbow.’_

“Can I have one scoop of that and one scoop of that?” The question was shyly directed at Paul who then directed it towards the scooper himself.

“Coming right up!” he cheerfully called, getting to his task. In the middle of stuffing Michael’s cone, he looked back to the older of the two boys and asked, “Anything for you, then, lad?”

Scanning the row of flavors in a less troubled way than his brother, Paul spotted one for which he always had a weakness. “Yeah, I’ll have two scoops of banana, please.”

The man wordlessly scooped out the second order. He passed the first to the oldest boy who passed it to his wide-eyed brother. Michael wasted no time in digging into his frozen treat. Paul prematurely cringed at the mess he knew was to come. When Paul was given his own cone, he reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

Recognizing the action, their friendly shopkeeper shook his head with a small smile and a wave of his hand. “Aw, tha’s alright, lad. S’on the house,” he said, beginning to wipe down the counter with the cloth slung over his shoulder.

Paul frowned, glancing at Mike as if to ask _Is he serious?_ The eight-year-old was currently preoccupied with attacking his ice cream with quick ease, brainfreeze be damned. Seeing as he was obviously too concerned with stuffing his face, Paul turned back to the man, frown still in tow.

“Um...are you sure, sir?” he asked.

“If you don’t want the deal, son, I can just charge ye double.” The man briefly glanced up from his work and smirked at Paul.

Paul chuckled and helped Mike down from the tall barstool with his free hand. He never refused free food and never missed a good chance to shut up. “No, no, that won’t be necessary, sir. Thanks again.” He began to lead them to a booth near the back of the parlor when he tapped Mike on his shoulder. “Tell the man thank you for the free ice cream, Mikey,” Paul instructed.

“Thank you for the free ice cream, Mikey!” He turned towards the man with a full-wattage grin. Even with the rainbow colors smeared on his chin and nose from his relentless feasting, it somehow managed to be contagious.

Paul nudged his brother, seeing how the innocent wit could be misconstrued as unappreciative sarcasm. “Mike,” Paul lightly scolded, assuming a familiar paternal duty.

The little one grinned bashfully but corrected himself. “Thank you for the ice cream, sir.”

With a wave of his hand, the shopkeeper said, “Don’t mention it. Your brother’s the one you should thank, lad.”

Somewhere in his sugar-rushed mind, Michael knew the old man was right. He had friends whose brothers looked down their noses at them, treating them like the scum of the earth and roughing ‘em up. But Paul was a role model, a confidant, and--in the last year--more of a parent than his father himself. So, yeah, he was pretty lucky.

Suddenly, Mike threw his arms around his big brother, wary of the placement of his sticky face and half-eaten cone as he encompassed him into the most affectionate hug his small form could muster. “Thank you, Paul,” he said as he squeezed his eyes shut with a smile.

The older of the two thought this was a better surprise than the free ice cream in his hand. After breathing out a startled laugh, Paul tried to hug back in spite of the substantial height difference. “It was my treat, kiddo. Just keep up your good marks,” he said, ruffling his hair.

When they finally made it to one of the secluded booths, a companionable silence fell about them. Mike still focused on devouring the second half of his cone, while Paul’s own got him thinking about the salesman himself. He vaguely wondered if the man knew his family somehow. Granted, Paul had never seen the man himself, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t recognize Paul or know their parents. Could this be some kind of pity pay?

_Oh, look at the poor McCartney boys, semi-orphaned and licking at their cones as if it were their open wounds._

Then again, Paul hadn’t really seen a look of sympathy or pity in the man’s eyes. But then there _was_ that comment about Mike thanking him. What was that about? How did he know Mike should thank him? Because Paul had been taking care of Mike on his own since he was seven? Because Paul became the most influential figure in Mike’s life once they were abandoned and should be paid back with a free banana ice cream?

He felt ice cream begin to drip onto his fingers, tears running down the cone from its neglect. Evidently, his heated thoughts had worked their way through his palm, slowly melting his dessert. Licking away the mess, he felt rather daft for silently insulting--and most likely misjudging--a kind soul. Never had he ever gotten so defensive to the point that he accused and questioned a friendly gesture. Just as he was crawling from the depths of his misery, the chime of the shop door and a consecutive annoyed shout startled him away from his sticky fingers and sour thoughts.

“Oh no, you don’t! Out with you, Lennon,” shouted the shopkeeper with a finger pointed towards the door and a scowl on his face. The victim of his protests stopped dead in his tracks at the entrance, sporting a look of shock.

“Come now, is that how you treat all yer customers?” Ignoring the order, he sauntered into the shop. “No wonder this place is headed for the dumps,” he said, giving it a once-over.

“Yer not gettin’ any free samples, John, so get yer trouble-makin’ arse outta ‘ere.”

“Aw, come on, Walters! Ye know Mimi don’t feed me.” His mocking pout made him look like a starving child. Though, his average build and broad shoulders contradicted any look of hungry sorrow written on his face.

“Shall I give her a ring, then, and see for meself?” The man raised a questioning eyebrow, already knowing the consequence the young lad would receive for disturbing his aunt over such trivial matters.

“No, sir. Won’t be necessary, sir. Carry on, sir. Sorry to bother you, sir.” John bowed his head with a smile, respectfully bowing out of the half-hearted fight.

He sashayed to the counter with his hands behind his back, taking his time to meander his eyes over the array of flavors. It’s not like he hasn’t tried all of them before--routinely coming in after school with a group of mates and requesting ridiculous amounts of samples, only to waltz out when their appetite was sated without making a purchase. In showing false intrigue now, he  mainly wanted old Mr. Walters to keep his glare to himself.

Feigning innocence and interest, John pointed to the bucket of chocolate ice cream behind the glass case. “Oh, would you look at that,” he began with faux intrigue. “Shit stain--my favorite flavor.” Mr. Walters stuck his nose up in disgust at Lennon’s words and sarcastic smirk, but eventually turned his attention away from the young ted.

John’s lip curled in contempt at the man before he turned away to scan the rest of the shop. There was an elderly couple enjoying sundaes at one of the round tables and two girls who looked a few years younger than himself seated a table over from the couple. John gave them a teasing wink but soon wore a devilish smirk when his eyes roamed the last half of the parlor. There, in the very last booth towards the back, sat an equally as devilish schoolmate.

Paul pretty much assumed the universe was in the process of balancing itself out. He lucked out of a bill, but now he was paying the price with imminent sexual harassment. From the moment he heard the shout of an increasingly familiar name, Paul had ducked his head and avoided all eye contact that wasn’t with the metal table top. The back of his mind shouted at him to _get the fuck out of there,_ but he knew that would only draw more attention to his presence which seemed all too obvious anyway.

“Hey, Paul, can you eat the edges of the cone here? I don’t like that bit and I can’t get to the ice cream no more,” Mike said as he frowned at his aforementioned problem. He hadn’t noticed that his brother was being so quiet until he felt a foreign presence towering over their booth. Looking up, he saw a stranger who looked to be roughly Paul’s age staring down at his brother with soft eyes and a small grin.

“Why is it that yer always hiding away in the corner of a room?” John said, standing at the entrance of Paul’s seat on the booth, purposefully blocking any attempts at escape.

“Why is it that you always have ta come find me?” Paul responded monotonously and held eye contact, unflustered and unintimidated. He frowned when John made room for himself on the seat by apparently being willing to sit on Paul’s lap until the younger boy begrudgingly shifted down the bench.

“Why do _you_ always haf’ta turn my questions back around on me?” John shot back, tossing his left arm across the back of the seat and turning himself towards Paul, eager to keep up their banter.

“Why do you always have ta make it so easy?” Paul smirked cheekily. He realized it was the first time he genuinely smiled with John. With anyone, really, except for George and Mike--the faces of familiarity. He actually found this teasing game with John a tad entertaining.

Faltering on a comeback, John could only return the grin, quirking an eyebrow and tucking his tongue against the inside of his cheek as a reluctant admittal of defeat. Still holding their deep eye contact, John tossed his head to the side, gesturing to the young boy across the table before actually turning his eyes to him.

“Who’s this, then?” Paul blinked rapidly, having been still locked in the previous eye contact, and forced himself to look away from the side of John’s face. He found Michael to be staring at their new table guest with something not dissimilar to awe. “And what the ‘ell’s he got on ‘is face?” John added after looking at the messy swirl of colors on the boy’s young face.

“His name’s Michael, and I’d appreciate it if ye didn’t swear ‘round ‘im,” Paul said, reverting back into his shell of disdain towards John.

“It’s ice cream,” Mike said, shyly referring to his mess. “Mint and rainbow flavor.” Paul dutifully handed over some napkins from the container on the table and watched as his younger brother cleaned himself with all of the grace an eight-year-old can possess.

“Odd combination, that,” John said. He watched the exchange with a mix of disgust from the childish and most likely sticky carelessness and intrigue from the affectionate means of help by Paul.

“Mike, finish your ice cream so we can go,” Paul instructed. Mike frowned at him, noticing his mood suddenly turning sour.

“Are you a ted?” the younger asked, ignoring his brother’s commands.

“Mike,” Paul warned. However, he was soon forced to turn his attention back to his own food, trying to dispose of it as quickly as possible.

John grinned at the question, stretching his arm further behind the seat and spreading his legs beneath the table so his left knee came in contact with Paul’s right. He found an unwarranted pride at Michael’s curious question and awestruck look.

Chuckling, he said, “I don’t like to label meself, but other people like to see me as one.”

 _Maybe cause you haven’t convinced them otherwise._ Paul mentally scoffed at John’s pretentious response.

“Ye’ve got hair like Elvis. Me n’ Paul love Elvis, ain’t that right, Paul?” Mike plowed on, not batting an eye at the older boy’s answer to his previous question.

“ _Mike_. Eat.” Paul gave his inquisitive brother a no-nonsense glare.

He didn’t need John learning about the things that were so untouchable and important to him. Furthermore, he didn’t want his brother becoming so involved with Lennon. He could see the swell of pride in his younger brother’s face at being one of the millions experiencing this sudden sweep of rock n’ roll music. While the images of rockers in the paper and the sounds of their wailing over the radio lit a spark in Paul’s life and dreams, it was something all too intimate to share with those he could not trust.

“Is that right?” John directed his question more towards Paul. The latter said nothing, but instead focused on his own ice cream. If the universe was not in Paul’s favor, it certainly was in John’s. The randy lad tried not to get a hard-on right then and there thanks to his wild imagination and the suggestive dessert in Paul’s hand.

Subtly adjusting himself in his trousers and tearing his eyes away from Paul’s tongue circling around the top of his ice cream, John added, “I’m a big fan meself. Think ‘e’s real fab.” He paused and looked at Paul again--actually studying his face rather than lusting over it. “Ye know, I think ye’d kinda look like ‘im. If ye wore a D.A., like.” John said quietly and reached out for Paul’s flat fringe, aimlessly brushing it up as if it would stay.

Caught off guard by the gentle touch, Paul loathed to admit he almost dropped his cone. John’s fingers were slowly flitting across his forehead and he detested the goosebumps it produced. Clearing his throat, Paul made to get out of the booth as quickly as possible--John or no John.

“We have to go,” he rushed, ignoring the sudden look of confusion on John’s face and his own confusion with himself.

“But I haven't finished eatin’ yet,” Mike protested, staying firmly planted in his seat.

“You can eat and walk at the same time, can't ye?” Paul snapped. He immediately stopped when he heard how harsh he sounded. Sighing, Paul stood and held out his hand for his younger brother. “Let’s just go, okay?” He softened his tone.

“Listen, Paul, I wasn't tryin’ ta run ye off,” John said, feeling somewhat guilty for the boy’s flustered state. Until this point, Paul had forgotten John was the whole reason for his sudden departure. He also didn't know when the older boy had moved to let him out of the seat.

“No--we, um, we just gotta go,” Paul said, avoiding eye contact and shaking the hand he still held out for Mike, a sign for the young boy to grab it so they could prove his point.

“So you said,” John mumbled with a frown. He watched how Michael begrudgingly took his brother’s hand with a pout and how Paul comically, yet most likely unintentionally, grimaced at the inevitable stickiness of the child’s hand. John found it hard to be irritated with such a beautifully chaotic sight.

As Mike was practically dragged out of the store, he attempted to awkwardly wave at his new acquaintance with an almost finished cone in his hand. Suddenly, however, a terrible realization hit him and he darted from his brother’s side, ignoring the sharp call of his name following close behind.

Stopping directly in front of the tall boy, he breathed with all of the sincerity in the world, “Wait, what’s yer name?”

Squatting down to be level with the kid, John laughed at the concern on such an innocent face, but offered nonetheless, “It’s Eric.” He paused for a moment, first grinning at the boy’s gullible expression, then gazing up to scrutinize Paul’s observance of their encounter from where he stood at the door. “Nah, it’s actually John,” he finally revealed.

Michael laughed and nodded, apparently at a loss for words. John slapped his knees, about to stand and bid adieu to the pair, when he noticed something.

“Hey, yer shoes’re untied. Can't ‘ave that. He’s a bad brother, he is, eh?” John teased, nodding up toward Paul and conjuring a giggle from Mike. He smiled and proceeded to tie the boys shoes for him.

Seeing what was about to transpire, Paul took a step forward with a yielding hand. “John, no--” He stopped himself short, however, when he saw compliance instead of the usual stubbornness his brother would give over such a task. His eyes widened in surprise as he was shocked to the point of immobility and was met with John’s questioning look.

“What?” he asked, but was cut off by Mike’s cheerful goodbye before he sauntered back to his brother.

Shaking his head with a frown, Paul mumbled “Nothing,” before addressing Michael with an equally as quiet, “come on.”

There was no goodbye on Paul’s part, and John stared stupidly at their retreating backs, only being brought out of his trance when the chime on the door sounded. He blinked rapidly and straightened himself up, feeling several pairs of eyes on him as if he were in a spotlight. Clearing his throat, he addressed the nosy customers.

“Lose somethin’ over here, then?” he asked, tone calculatingly rough--a contradiction to the soft mannerisms he showed moments ago. It did the trick, nonetheless; all eyes averting his own immediately. There was still one person who was unfazed by Lennon’s persona.

“Looks like I'm not the only one who won't give ye a free sample, eh, Lennon?” the old man behind the counter mocked, flashing the teen a wink.

“Shurrup, Walters, ye cream-scoopin’ cunt,” John sneered back as he escorted himself out. Ignoring the gasps from other customers that followed him out the door, John made his way to the record store across the street, aiming to nick his troubles away.

 

~*~

 

“Ow, Paulie, yer hurtin’ me hand,” Mike complained, struggling to keep up with Paul’s long and quick strides. 

“Wha’? Oh…sorry, Mikey,” he apologized distractedly. The only thing faster than his step was his thoughts; the former had almost gotten him to Forthlin Road while the latter were running on an endless loop.

“Are you mad at me?” Mike looked up and frowned, squinting against the bright sun that shone just behind Paul’s profile. Ironic how something so bright and beautiful could yield something as unpleasant as a frown. In that moment, the sun and Paul were the same in that aspect. Now frowning for different reasons, Mike tried not to trip over his own feet as Paul tugged him along and was thankful his shoes were tied for once.

The fragile and frightened tone jarred Paul’s brain and steps to a staggering halt. Blinking ahead dazedly for a moment and wondering just how they managed to walk themselves to the golf course so quickly, Paul slowly turned his head and matched his solemn brother’s expression.

The sight was a truly heartbreaking one to behold. There the eight-year-old stood--fear, confusion, and remorse a pitiful concoction on his young face. A green tint adorned his pouty lips from the earlier ice cream which now only proved to symbolize the boy’s innocence. Paul took a moment to step into the freshly-tied shoes of his baby brother. The poor lad had received no excuse for their sudden rush from the shop or the rather harsh grip Paul had kept on him since said rush. In Mike’s sullen eyes, it was unwarranted, yet somehow, all his fault.

And Paul had never felt more like a shitty brother in his life.

At the sight of tears brimming in the youngest pair of those famous McCartney eyes, Paul sighed and knelt down to be level with his brother. Grabbing his smaller hands and looking him straight in the eye to alleviate doubt, he said, “Of course not, Mikey. Ye did nothing wrong, lad. It’s just….” He sighed and looked down at the freshly cut grass of the greenery they stood on, hoping he could find the right words between the blades. Shaking his head and reestablishing their eye contact, he finished, “John’s not a good lad, okay? ‘E’s a troublemaker and we didn’t need to be stickin’ around ‘im. But you did nothin’ wrong, Mike.” He smiled reassuringly, waiting to see the light enter his brother’s face for the sake of his own reassurance.

Michael nodded; his eyebrows that were creased in worry now relaxed across his brow. He did not smile immediately and gave no verbal response, but was simply relieved that he was not at fault. Paul felt something within himself expand when he saw the tension slowly leaving his brother. He gently rubbed Mike’s cheek before standing up and holding his hand out patiently…comfortingly. Wordlessly, the younger took it, and Paul turned their previous hurry into more of a stroll.

Their walk continued in silence, save for the occasional sniffle--courtesy of Mike. Paul wished they had not let a force like John Lennon drive a wedge between their enjoyable day. At least not Mike’s, anyway. It seemed Lennon woke up with the plan to ruin each one of Paul’s.

Was it all truly on purpose or was Paul perhaps a bit too harsh on the bloke? He had miraculously managed to tie Michael’s shoes in the shop, a feat Paul has been unable to accomplish for nearly a year now. Maybe Mike saw something in John that Paul himself just couldn’t see yet….

Before he had time to tread into such dangerous territories, Paul noticed a pleasantly familiar figure standing at their front door as they rounded on Forthlin Road. Below him came a gasp and an excited, “Georgie!” which Paul had to shush quickly. Before Mike had the chance to attack their oblivious visitor, Paul reaffirmed his grip and stopped them from moving further.

Leaning towards the young lad, Paul whispered, “Let’s give ‘im a good scare, yeah?” In response, he received an eager nod and quiet giggle.

Creeping forward, the two McCartney’s snuck up directly behind George who was alternating between knocking on the door and ringing the bell of the empty home. Paul placed his lips as close to his friend’s ear as he could without prematurely startling him. Michael looked on with unsuppressed glee but remained quiet as a church mouse while he let his brother execute the plan he undoubtedly concocted.

“Ye’ll have ta have a warrant if yer wantin’ ta search the house. I know me rights,” Paul said in the deepest voice he could manage.

It was by the grace of God that George didn’t drop his acoustic onto the harsh doorstep below. His startled curse and frantic jump, however, seemed rather unstoppable. He spun on his heels and was met by two twats doubled over in laughter at his expense. After clutching his breast in a similar fashion to a frightened elderly lady, Harrison managed some semblance of composure and regular breathing.

“You two are right menaces,” he grumbled to the others. The eldest was leaning on the doorway with a forearm cushioning his head, while the youngest was clutching his nether regions in what could only be an attempt not to relieve his bladder right there in the walkway. And above it all, a roarous laughter sounded around them.

George eventually caved and surrendered himself to the infectious laughter, though it was less enthusiastic. He was not upset, no. But practical jokes were never as funny for the unfortunate bloke on the receiving end.

“Cor, ye jumped two feet, mate!” Paul snorted out between laughter. At the very least, it touched George to see his old mate smiling so genuinely and freely for the first time since he came back. Paul shook his head and wiped his tears as he made to unlock the front door between the shaking of his hand.

“Thought I was at the wrong bloomin’ ‘ouse, didn’t I? Show up for the first time in a year and it sounds like I got the bozzies breathin’ down me neck.” George defended.

Paul pushed the door opened and stumbled inside when fits of laughter arose from his stomach at the recurring image of his friend’s scare. While one McCartney had a fit in the front room, the other darted upstairs to use the loo before he embarrassed himself in front of company.

Calming himself down, Paul took a deep breath and finally met George’s eye, smiling. “I haven’t laughed that hard in a while, mate. Thanks for that.” It came out as lightheartedly as the laughter from just moments before, but under different circumstances, George thought Paul may have seen the weight of his words clearer. For now, he gave him this moment.

“Glad to be of service,” George replied, going for more of an unamused tone simply to keep from turning the situation too daft and sentimental. Brandishing his guitar, he asked, “Up for some practice?”

Paul nodded and pointed upstairs. “Yeah, give me a mo’ to grab me guitar. Make yerself at home, yeah?” At that invitation, George smiled and strutted to the kitchen to get them some snacks while they played.

Paul hated to admit he forgot George was even supposed to come over to play this afternoon. Between the excitement of Mike’s good report and John doing his head in during their celebration, Paul hadn’t much thought for anything else. But now, he realized playing guitar with his mate would be the perfect distraction from the chaos that hadn’t settled since he’d been home. Finding the sliver of blue sky on a cloudy day, Paul smiled as he raced down the stairs with guitar in hand and allowed himself to get lost in their jam session.

 

~ * ~

 

By the time Paul waved George goodbye that night, he had learned how to play two songs and four new chords. It seemed the youngest of the two certainly put in his playing time while Paul was away, leaving the latter with a lot of catching up to do if he wanted to be on his friend’s level.

Whistling to George’s flawless rendition of _Raunchy_ , Paul closed the front door and made his way to the kitchen where the light had been left on. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he knew it was after nine o’clock because Mike had briefly interrupted their session to tell Paul goodnight and discretely request a bedtime story. Paul humored his brother as he did every night by reading to him and then sitting with him until he nodded off.

His father had also said naught a word besides the polite greeting to the boys in the sitting room upon his arrival and a quick goodnight later in the evening. Paul was surprised not to hear a warning about having school the following morning, an implicit order to wrap up the playing. But Paul wasn’t one to complain when he was relieved from his father’s nagging, so he left it unmentioned.

Just as he was about to revel in the fact that he could now retreat to his own bed like the rest of his family, Paul stopped dead in his tracks. His hand froze in mid-air, unfulfilling its journey towards the kitchen light switch.

Widening his eyes and feeling his heart sink in his chest, Paul looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He stared at the pile of abandoned school work scattered across the kitchen table and realized  he very well may see the ghost of his good marks sometime in the near future. His hand fell limply by his side, and the look of surprise soon turned to a look of defeat and disappointment.

He was utterly knackered. There was no way he could will himself to stay awake long enough to finish the readings he had to do for class the following day. There was also no way he could let his dad find out about the terrible grade that would be sure to follow the missed readings.

Groaning and suppressing the urge to hit a wall, Paul slumped himself into the chair. He forcefully rubbed his hands over his face before chancing a look at the clock. For some inexplicable reason, he felt like crying.

_12:32._

His eyes were then drawn to the pitch blackness peeping through the kitchen window. Paul wished it would suddenly consume him and take away the pressures of perfection. _Color me with charcoal until there’s no way to be bleached back to respectability._ Shaking his head--and, subsequently, the pessimism from his mind--he set to work rather than dwelling on just how much work it actually was.

As he read and wrote and read some more, the hands of the clock never seemed to stop. The minutes ticked by faster but his blinking grew slower, coaxing him into the comfort of sleep. It was all too tempting yet all too irresponsible, which left Paul at a crossroads. One a.m. had him questioning his life choices while two a.m. had him bent over the kitchen sink splashing cold water on his face.

In the end, he managed to finish all of his assignments--bullshitting a majority of it. The best he could hope for was good marks for mediocre effort. But marks of any sort were the least of his concerns at this hour. It was half past three, and he knew his alarm would infiltrate any attempt at sleep in only a matter of hours. At best, he had three hours to recharge before literally rising to the occasion that was getting Mike ready for school.

Trudging himself up the stairs with footsteps he could only hope were not as loud as they sounded in his own ears, Paul flopped himself into bed, on top of the covers and fully clothed in that day’s outfit. Accomplishing anything more would have simply been a miracle but rather impossible, for Paul was out in seconds flat.

 

~ * ~

 

Being shrouded in a darkness that accompanied a dreamless sleep, Paul vaguely wondered how any external noises could seep through the thick haze. Nevertheless, there it was--the shallow calling of his name.

“Paul.”

“Paul.”

“ _Paul._ ”

The word became crisper with each call as Paul slid into consciousness, and the final insistent summons triggered a response from the comatose boy, though it was the feeblest response possible. A grunt and flash of hazel was all Paul could muster, and his father should have been grateful he even received that.

“Michael says he’s been calling you for about ten minutes now, son. I can’t have you slacking on me, Paul. C’mon now-- _up_ ,” Jim McCartney said, tugging at the arm Paul had flung off of the side of the bed.

In a repeat of the emotions from the night before, Paul wanted to cry. There was really nothing more to it. He wanted to cry, but his eyes were too heavy to allow even a sliver of sunlight past. Not that he cared to see _that_ too much at the moment.

It seemed that just minutes ago he strewed himself across the bed, and now he was awoken by a ringing louder than any alarm clock--responsibility. It had jerked away his metaphorical covers and was now kicking his sorry ass out of bed. And because he wasn't a defiant sod, he allowed it.

When his father finally exited the room to get himself ready, Paul sat on the edge of his bed and roughly drug his hands across his face, hoping to shake the sleep long enough to get both he and Mike dressed.

As he sat and tried to gather his wits, a sudden realization made him feel as awake as if he'd gotten a full eight hours sleep rather than a measly three. Staring at his dresser drawer, Paul gave his sleep deprived brain no time to consider his actions or thoughts. He flung the drawer open, rooted beneath his meticulously organized socks, and procured his carefully wrapped secret.

Unwrapping John’s “gift” to him, Paul gave himself one last chance to chicken out.

_This little baby here, is like a shot of adrenaline._

_How much harm could come from something so small?_

The thumping of feet nearing the top of the landing and the cry of “Paul, I need help with me tie” startled him into action. In one fluent motion, he tossed the pill back without hesitation and swallowed it dry. Already, his heart raised, but it was his body’s own adrenal response to what he just committed himself to rather than a superficial response provided by what he just took.

In the end, he supposed he could just blame his choice on the lack of sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Mike not the cutest?! I think so, anyway. But I'm a tad biased. 
> 
> It seems that this is turning out to be a rather long fic. I'm already past 20,000 words and I'm not nearly finished. If you guys don't want to sit through a lot of chapters, please let me know, and I can rearrange the plot or think of ways to tone it down. 
> 
> Also, please let me know about the writing style! Too bland? Not enough figurative language? Not enough imagery? All of that is very helpful to know, and I want to provide a satisfying reading experience. Okay, I'm done talking! Please leave a comment if you have one! It'll help me as I'm writing the rest of the story. Thank you!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting to the crux of it! At least, I think we are.... You can be the judge of that. 
> 
> I think this chapter is a little shorter than others which I find highly ironic considering everyone literally just approved of longer chapters. But I didn't do it on purpose! I wanted to leave off at a good spot and I'm also trying to stay ahead of myself. I would be very disappointed in myself if I abandoned this fic after all the work I'm putting in.
> 
> So thank you for all the support I've gotten. I have an insatiable need for approval, so it truly keeps me going and makes me gush like a five-year-old. As a token of my appreciation, I give you Prellie Paul.

He could feel the bus before it even approached--driving over the speed bumps of his arteries and the cracked pavement of his skin. There was a heightened awareness about everything around him. His heartbeat was everywhere--pounding in his chest, ears, skull. He _was_ his heartbeat. A pulsating, vibrant, flowing being.

The grass was greener and the sky was bluer. The combination of heat from the sun and warm blood in his veins made him fifty degrees hotter than he should have been. But it didn’t matter because he could breathe again. Upon an inhale, colder air rushed through his nose, down his windpipe, and into his lungs. At some unidentifiable place within Paul, a boulder-sized burden had been lifted. After chasing down a world that spun out of his reach, he was finally caught up.

What the _fuck_ had John given him? Experiencing its effects firsthand, Paul concluded it was something that would leave him hollow when it wore off. Was this high something he could live without?

The effects of the prellie kicked in about thirty minutes after he'd downed it. Since then, he'd managed to haphazardly put himself and Mike together (though he was wary enough to make his brother look more presentable) in record time and with a pep in his step. From the moment they'd left the house and he dropped Mike off at his stop, Paul carried an urge to sprint all the way to his own stop. There was no need for such a thing--it's not like he was running late--he just had an overwhelming urge and abundance of sudden energy to do so. He did, however, resist the thought, knowing how idiotic he would look in a full sprint down the street.

On the bus, he planted himself onto the same seat from the morning before. There was an uncontainable fidgeting about him and an explicable smile on his face as he sat contentedly. He quietly laughed at the newness of this experience and didn't bat an eye when he felt a dip in the seat.

“Ye know, people are gonna start thinkin’ yer loony if yer sittin’ by yerself and laughin’ for no reason.” The honeyed voice drifted into his ears and pricked the hairs on his neck. He'd never noticed just how naturally seductive John’s voice was, though it was probably an effect of his hyperactivity.

“Who said I didn't have a reason?” Paul said, still smiling and willingly making eye contact with John. He felt more tolerable of John and up to his challenges for once.

“Aye? Care to share, then?” John smirked. His body language was more open, turning with one knee placed in the gap between them so he could face the boy he’d abandoned his mates for once again.

Paul shrugged. “I dunno. ‘M just happy.” John eyed him carefully, causing Paul to feel more restless than he already was. His foot was already working overtime on the floorboard below, and he belatedly realized he was anxiously picking at his nails.

John narrowed his eyes amidst his critique. The ceaseless fidgeting, the widened pupils, the disheveled appearance--it all looked too familiar to a trained eye such as John’s. Though it looked much more alluring on the younger boy--the way his hair swept messily across his forehead or how his doe eyes appeared even droopier and darker underneath. The clothes hanging loosely and carelessly off of his body made John want to rip them off entirely and skip his daft plans of seduction so he could get right to what he wanted.

“You took it.” A victorious smile crept across John’s lips at his discovery. He felt as though he just decoded a cryptic message, and he scooted closer on the bench seat, enticed by the thrill. It was also to his amusement that he saw panic flicker across Paul’s face.

“What?” He frowned, heating up from John’s proximity and the realization that spread across the older boy’s face.

“Don't bullshit me, I know a high when I see one.” He kept his voice low, knowing the risk of discussing such a subject with a casualness typically associated with a chat about the weather.

“I don't know what yer talkin’ about,” Paul said, portraying his feigned indifference more defensively than necessary. He hoped his speech wasn't as fast as his heartbeat; that'd be a sure giveaway. In the back of his mind, he knew there'd be no fooling a drug dealer, though.

“Oh, really?” He firmly placed a hand over the thigh of Paul’s shaking leg and used the other to clasp his twiddling hands. Paul’s eyes shot to where John first conjoined them then tracked to the three hands now in his lap. “Then why've ye been shakin’ like a leaf since ye got on, love?”

When Paul didn't respond--immediately admitting his guilt--John steamrolled through their new confession. “Christ, you must be a lightweight, mate. I only gave ye one, and I highly doubt ye got some from anyone else.” Snapping away from the haze that John’s touch wrapped him within, he suddenly felt inexplicably hostile.

“Look, mate, ye don't know shit, okay?! Ye don't fuckin’ know what it was like! You think I wanted to take that shit? I was tired out of me bleedin’ mind and I was trying to finish my fuckin’ work and I had ta wake up at--”

“Hey, hey--calm down, Paul. Fuck, love, nobody's accusin’ you of anything. Just sit down, alright? It's the pill, is all. Just calm down….”

Paul only now realized he was standing--a panting, cherry-faced ball of rage. As John gently guided him back into his seat by his shoulders, he forced himself to get a grip and blinked away the red blur coating his vision. His heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest as his blood ran hot through his veins. Rubbing his hands across his face, he zoned out the background chatter around him.

“Everythin’ alright up there, John? Did ye piss off the Missus again?” Pete called up to the front of the bus, followed by encouraging snickers.

“You lot keep yer noses back there. Don't worry about us,” John shouted back before redirecting his attention to more valuable deservers--such as his frightened first-time user. “That's right, deep breaths, yeah?” He rubbed soothing circles on Paul’s hunched back, honestly not giving a fuck about any protests from the lad that could arise from the touch.

“I know it probably feels like yer dyin’,” he continued, “but I swear yer not.” He chuckled lightly, attempting a lighthearted reassurance. “And I don't care why ye took it--I mean, I'm obviously not gonna judge ye or anything. It just…surprised me, s’all.”

Paul sighed, shaking his head as he pulled himself upright in his seat. John removed his hand from his back and allowed the boy some air to breathe.

“No, no,” Paul began, “it’s not yer fault. I just feel very…jumpy.” He sighed again and faced John with mild concern. “Is it gonna be like this all day?”

“Nah, you'll get used to it,” John replied, looking unusually soft. “And I know you'll hate to hear it, but yer gonna feel like shit when ye come down. It'll stick with you for about two hours, and then yer gonna need to take more if ye wanna make it til ye at least get home.”

“I really don't wanna haf’ta take more,” Paul said, running a hand through his hair. In all honesty, it wasn't a _terrible_ experience. He just didn't like the jitteriness and the on-edge feeling that accompanied it. The boost of energy and the pronounced awareness were all perks for the time being, however. “And, Christ, I can't really afford ta buy any.”

“Listen, just come see me at lunch. I'll be at the back of the building. Ye’ll need about two to last ye--free of charge.” He playfully ruffled Paul’s hair, actually earning a genuine grin from the boy in the process.

“Thanks, John,” Paul replied, a glow in his eye and a bashfulness in his voice.

Suddenly overcome with the urge to rest his heavy head somewhere, he laid it on John’s shoulder. On this unusually warm day, his signature leather jacket was missing, leaving Paul with the cushion of a fresh cotton t-shirt. The drugged up lad sighed at the coolness of his dealer’s shoulder and closed his eyes to seek a few moments solace behind his dark lids.

The moment of softness and willing compliance shocked John. Immediately, he convinced himself he was the one to swallow a handful of prellies. He gently squirmed down in his seat to provide Paul with the best resting experience he could offer. Had any other lad decided to use John as a pillow, he would’ve called them out for being a soft ponce.

But John didn’t see Paul as _‘any other lad.’_

And Paul didn’t see John as _‘just a pillow.'_  

So, when lunchtime came, he did meet John.

 

~ * ~

 

John idly smoked a cigarette as he awaited Paul’s arrival. Around him, Stu, Pete, and Colin did the same but with more enthusiasm and joking.

Ever since he'd agreed to meet Paul for lunch, he had this nauseating mixture of excitement and nervousness. Of course, he thrilled over the prospect of his pursuit on the stunning lad to be paying off, but there was an unsettling knowledge that the presence of his mates would cock everything up.

“‘Ey, could you lot fuck off for a while?” John asked, aiming for brutal honesty and carelessly thrusting the statement into their laughs. It was not a question as much as it was an order. The self-proclaimed alpha that he was, John knew objections were nonexistent anyway. But there was always the exception….

“And why would we wanna do that, Johnny?” Stu countered cheekily.

“Cause I fuckin’ said to, Stu, love,” John responded in the same saccharine tone. Then more dryly, “And ‘m pushin’ a deal.” He looked forward again, flicking the ash off of his cigarette with a characteristic squint.

“So?” Colin piped up. “Ye’ve always pushed ‘round us. What's so special ‘bout this time?” Christ, John couldn't stand the lad sometimes; he'd hop on any bandwagon as long as it was sturdy enough.

 _“Ohh,_ I know what it is,” Pete said, looking like the cat who got the cream. “I bet ye it's that fit lad from the bus ‘e keeps pinin’ over.” He touched a finger to his forehead and then to John, grinning knowingly.

 _Perceptive cunt._ John’s jaw clenched at their insight. It was partly his fault, he reckoned; he wasn't one to befriend dense mates.

“That true, John?” Stu asked, sounding eerily like Mimi when she tried to get a confession out of her deflective nephew.

“So what if it's Paul? Either way, I don't want you sods harrassin’ me sale.”

“Aw, come on, Lennon. Everybody's gotten to see this little heartbreaker that's got our Johnny’s heart all in a twist ‘cept me.”

“Well, Stu, looks like yer prayers ‘ave been answered, cause ‘ere he comes,” Pete said, causing John and Stu to turn their heads quick enough to snap a bone.

Sure enough, McCartney was rounding the farthest end of the brick wall. As his young buyer glanced up briefly before placing his eyes back on the ground, John had time to whisper a “fuck” in dreadful anticipation.

“Uh...hi,” Paul said with a tight-lipped smile once he approached the small group of teds. There was a knot in his stomach telling him this was a bad idea and these were black-hearted people, but the subtle softness he heard in John’s voice earlier that morning kept him standing there.

“Hey,” John murmured back, awestruck by the drastic change in energy surrounding Paul. This morning, the other lad was giddy with excitement--high on the feeling of being high--or turning beat red from pent up hostility; but now, his presence was devoid of all energy and emotion. It was rather unsettling, and John ached to find Paul’s solution. Fortunately enough, it laid just within his pocket.

The clearing of multiple throats broke through John’s assessment of Paul. Frowning and turning his head, he was met with three innocently smiling faces. He rolled his eyes and turned back to Paul.

“Paul, these are me mates: Stu, Colin, and Pete,” John said, listing them in order of how they stood but failing to (and not caring to) actually point out who was whom. “Arse--I mean, mates, this is Paul.” He gestured to the new face of the group.

Paul nodded politely but wordlessly to the intimidating number of quiffs and cigarettes. In his mind, people like this didn't have much more depth than that simple description. Admittedly, however, the ringleader had a curiosity about him. Whether Paul wanted to explore it was hard to answer. And he hated the fact that the affirmative answer was the one resting most comfortably on the tip of his tongue.

“Well, well, didn't expect ye ta pick such a young one. We’ve got a right cherub on our hands here, lads. He even supposed to be here?” Stu teased, bumping into John to intentionally nudge him closer to the young boy.

“And he looks like a bird, too. You sure you like lads as much as you let on, Johnny?” Pete chimed in.

“Fuck off, you arseholes,” John said, grabbing Paul by a shoulder and leading them towards one of the sparse trees behind the school.

Behind him, he heard a mocking call of, “Now, now, Johnny--don't keep ‘im all to yerself” which was surrounded by obscene and immature noises.

Dead. His friends were dead to him. And there was a special place in Hell for them. Satan was most likely customizing three thrones at the same time John was apologizing for the reasons they had to be built in the first place.

“‘M sorry about that. They're, um…” He trailed off, looking for the right word to excuse such behavior.

“Dicks?” Paul offered, crossing his arms.

John weakly laughed at the suggestion. “Yeah.”

For once in his life, John was at a loss for words. In the countless drug deals he's done, he's never felt so nervous. And there was no excuse for it, really. Whether he was pining or selling (or in this case, both), he carried a natural confidence throughout. That mask seemed to crack and shatter before him now.

Giving himself a mental shake, he continued more coolly, “Still need yer little refill, then?” Paul chuckled weakly and nodded.

“Um, yeah,” he answered simply, rubbing the nape of his neck in something akin to discomfort. John noticed the hesitance in the answer and the self-disappointed look on Paul’s face. He leaned against the tree behind him and crossed his arms over his chest, looking at Paul sincerely.

“These don't make you a bad person, ye know. I know ye probably feel that way cause you see people like us takin’ em. But…I guess I just want you to know yer secret’s safe with me if ye want it to be. Confidentiality n’ all that.”

Now John was the one to rub his nape, feeling immediately stupid for even opening his mouth. Dealers were supposed to be no-nonsense businessmen who couldn't give two fucks about their buyers so long as they got paid in the end. And here he was, sounding like an absolute ponce because he had the ridiculous urge to play comforter to a first-time user.

Paul seemed taken aback by the confession, staring at John open-mouthed. He tracked his eyes over the dangerous looking boy, scouting for any trace of deceit. The words, however unexpected, were oddly reassuring to Paul even though he knew they shouldn't be. When he saw no insincerity and only uncomfortable twitchiness, Paul nodded slowly in response.

“Yeah, thanks. That'd be really nice of you, actually. I can't imagine what'd happen if me da’ caught wind of it,” he laughed nervously, practically already able to feel the burn his backside would suffer should such a thing happen.

“How'd you manage through the morning?” John asked.

“Fuckin’ great til ‘bout thirty minutes ago. Then I felt like hell and like I missed a week of sleep instead of a few hours.” He smiled. John’s heart leapt in his chest at seeing Paul’s features turn up--his nose slightly scrunching and his chubby cheeks pressing higher up his face, revealing small smile wrinkles at his eyes. John hoped he wouldn't regret dragging such an innocent and jovial face into his toxic world of smoking, drinking, and pushing.

“So it’d be grand if I could get those others now before I fall asleep on me feet. I kinda had to blow off a friend at lunch for this,” Paul continued when John only stared intently at him. Personally, it made him feel itchy in his skin, a blush rising to his cheeks when he remembered the many times John has flirted with him thus far.

“Oh! Right, right,” John said, snapping into action. He rooted in the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the order he had for Paul. Just as he went to hand it to the younger lad, he jerked it back, a smirk gracing his face and a brilliant idea infiltrating his mind.

“What?” Paul asked with a frown. He noticed the smug grin slowly appearing on the ted’s face and he was ninety-nine percent sure it meant trouble.

“Yer gonna owe me somethin’ for the trouble,” John said simply, trying to tease Paul by tossing the sought after baggy about in his hands.

“But you said--”

“I know what I said. But a bloke can change his mind, can't he?” John countered. He pushed away from the tree and stepped closer to Paul, knowing the effect his proximity tended to have on others.

“Look, I told you I ain't got any money. And I won't do any other twisted favors you might have in mind.” Paul frowned but stood his ground with every step John took. This was why he never wanted to mess with that pill in the first place--he didn't want his every move dictated by someone as manipulative as John.

“I didn't ask for that, did I?” John wanted to be offended by Paul’s assumption and low standards of him, but he honestly couldn't care less. It wouldn't do either of them any good if he blew his lid right now, anyway.

“Well what do you want?”

“Go out with me,” Lennon requested simply, no bullshitting. He gently grabbed Paul’s forearm, bringing himself closer.

“What? ‘M not queer, mate.” Even though he had little experience with girls, he was pretty sure he wasn't a poof. And it wasn't his fault when his body reacted in certain ways to John’s touches…and looks…and proximity…and words. No, definitely not queer.

“Oi, no need to be throwin’ names around, son. I didn't say you were, anyroad. I just meant hangin’ out--ye know, like mates.” Initially, the ‘like mates’ part wasn't in the plan. He wasn't daft or soft enough to ask for a date, but he did want to spend more time with the new lad.

Paul stayed quiet, eyeing John and this proposition skeptically. He didn't see much choice if he wanted to make it through the rest of the day without a teacher tattling to ol’ Jim. It was a highly undesirable situation. But John _had_ been opening his eyes to new experiences. At the very least, he could have a laugh. At the very worst, he could set himself up for a world of deviance.

“Yer not like them, are you?” Paul asked slowly, tossing his head towards John’s mates still standing some distance away. John looked over before turning back and giving Paul a challenging look.

“I guess you can find out if I get to see you tonight.”

Paul sighed, too weary for the mind games. “And if I do that, you'll give me those without any further hassle?” He asked, nodding towards the bag in John’s other hand. The dealer nodded. “Fine,” he sighed out.

“Deal?” John asked, smiling wider now.

 _“Yes, deal!”_ Paul said exasperatedly. “Christ,” he mumbled to himself as he rubbed the hand unoccupied by John’s touch across his forehead. He could already feel the wear a night out with Lennon would have on him.

“I’ll be around at six. Where do you live?”

“Why?” Paul questioned stubbornly.

“Christ, so I can fuckin’ stop by, okay? Don't be so bloody elusive. If ye don't tell me yerself, I'll just get someone else to.”

Sighing, Paul admitted, “20 Forthlin Road.”

John's eyebrows shot up at the address. “Not too far from there meself. How convenient.” He smiled lecherously.

“Convenience to some, burden to others,” Paul mumbled. John rolled his eyes, not caring to one-up it with a cheeky remark of his own.

“See you at six, then.” John sealed the agreement by sliding his hand down Paul’s forearm so he could grip his hand and slap the tiny baggy of two pills into the open palm. He squeezed it shut with his own and locked eyes with Paul.

“Yeah…six,” Paul whispered, captivated by the swirl of colors in John’s eyes and even the very shape of them. They had an odd, almond shape about them--highlighted by flowing lashes. They weren't nearly as long as Paul’s own, but still rather long for a lad. There was a mix of golds and browns composing his eye color. Everything about them seemed to compliment the auburn hair quiffed atop his head and the other pronounced features of his face.

Amidst the intense staring, John smiled softly at Paul. This, however, seemed to be the spell-breaking factor for the younger boy’s trance. He blinked rapidly and began to turn away, ready to wipe his hands clean of this little transaction. Just as he was turning, the grip on his hand tightened, and John caught his attention again with his words.

“Oh, and Paul?” When he had him turned back around, John brought his face alongside Paul’s, ensuring his words could be heard loud and clear. The responding gasp only made him grin wider. “Queer’s just another one of them useless labels. Jus’ do what feels good and don't knock it til ye try it.” Before pulling away, he placed the lightest of kisses to Paul’s cheek. The latter could hardly tell if it happened at all. But the way his cheek burned with a distinct imprint of lips, he knew it must've been real.

“See ye at six. Don't keep me waiting,” John added in a low, hushed tone.

The only thing Paul could manage was watching him turn, thump a cigarette out of his pack, and slowly strut back over to his friends. McCartney remained frozen in place, afraid that his legs would give out should he try to move.

Eventually, they regained feeling and carried him back towards the building. Lunch only had a few minutes remaining, and somewhere in Paul’s mind, he felt like a total ass for ditching his best friend for a bag of prellies. But every time that small part of his brain tried to condemn him with guilt, the rest of it reminded him of how John’s lips felt when they were pressed to his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think! I feel like I need to amp up the characterization. My brain is overloaded with AU ideas, but I'm forcing myself to finish this one before I continue working on some of the others I've started. I love you all for supporting and even reading this weird piece of shit! Thanks a ton!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY MCLENNON DAY!!! I learned today is also International Kissing Day, so like, how perfect is that?!
> 
> [Unfortunately, there's no kissing in this chapter :( ]
> 
> So I initially wasn't planning to post today but realized I had to celebrate this wonderful day somehow.
> 
> Anyway, here's to the duo that trumps all duos!

It was a mistake. Paul should have coughed up the money to pay for those pills like a normal person, and he wouldn’t have been conned into going out with John tonight. He was riding a tidal wave, going up, down, and under with emotions that shouldn’t even be present in the context of John. Instead of acting like a bird preparing for a date, he should have thrown together the first thing he saw in his drawer and ran a comb through his hair. Because there was no one to impress.

Contradicting any sensibility, however, he stood with his hands on his hips and stared into the bottomless pit of his wardrobe. As his eyes glanced between a royal blue jumper and a plain black t-shirt, he shook his head. It was preposterous to stand and internally debate his fashion choices for a night out with another bloke. The less thought he put into the rest of this evening, the better off he’d be.

Without a second thought, he threw on the black t-shirt and grabbed a pair of jeans before running his fingers through his hair. He decided his preparations could end there. Besides, turning John off of his looks would be the first step in keeping him away. 

There was an hour left before John was supposed to show up. Paul subdued his overthinking nature by occupying himself in the kitchen. Since their father tended to work late, it was Paul’s paternal duty to prepare a dinner for them all. Though Paul would not be home for it, he refused to have Mike cooking his own meals so soon. The younger lad sat at the kitchen table, losing himself in his school work with the same vigor Paul had at that age. Enjoyment from school was a feeling lost in his older age, and Paul no longer cared to reaffirm it.

Stirring his pot of mash with vague interest, he stared off into the center of the creamy whiteness as if being drawn within it. What was a meal if it wasn’t one with the chef? He blurrily discerned the hum of the television in the other room and the sizzle of a roast in the oven. All at once, everything was overwhelming yet nonexistent. From the outside, Paul observed himself stir and stare, stir and stare--the motions a hypnotic circle. 

_ This is my life now….. I'm a housewife at only sixteen. Will this always be the only option? _

A rhythmic bang on the front door snapped Paul’s trance, also causing the wooden spoon in his hand to rattle against the metal pot. He frowned and eyed the clock at the opposite wall. There were still thirty minutes left before John was supposed to show. On the way down, his eyes met Mike’s curious one’s. The matter of Paul’s absence from dinner this evening was still unbeknownst to the young boy because Paul dreaded satiating the inevitable questions to be thrown at him. 

Paul sighed and went to grab a plate for his brother’s dinner. Just as he was about to turn back to the stove, he saw Mike’s small form prepare to dart from its seat and towards the front door. Anticipating such, Paul authoritatively snapped his fingers and pointed to Mike’s seat.

“Nuh-uh, sit.” He fleetingly regretted disciplining Michael in a way one would a pet, especially when the lad tried to be helpful; but he preferred to avoid all encounters John could have with his young brother. And like a good lad, Mike begrudgingly re-planted himself at the table.

After his brother’s plate was fixed, roast and all, Paul delivered it to him at the table. He ruffled his brown mop of hair and licked a bit of mash from his thumb as he made his way to the door. With a preparatory sigh and a silent prayer, Paul opened the door to be met with a devastating sight.

John leaned against the brick by the door, arms folded at his chest and legs crossed to leave him at a tilt. He was handsome and poised, and he was there for Paul.  _ Paul _ was the one he wanted to impress. 

The older boy seemed to have been tediously passing his time by staring at the brick work, for his eyes slowly tracked their way to Paul’s face. When they reached his boyish features, Paul saw something alight within them, though the rest of John’s posture never revealed the emotion shone in his eyes. 

He wore a tight, white t-shirt which was tucked securely into an even tighter pair of black drainpipe jeans. They reminded Paul of his own long-lost desire to worm into a similar pair when he’d first laid eyes on them. Fat chance with Prison Guard Jim roaming the grounds.

A crisp leather jacket, scuffed up leather boots, and a quiff that spoke of ages of practice topped the look off. The entire ensemble was enough to make Paul feel two centuries behind him. The thought that he had to go out with John’s bad-boy bravado while looking like the poster child of innocence and good nature was unnerving.

“You’re early,” Paul said, neither angry nor concerned. He made no attempt to grant John entrance but instead remained fixed in place with one hand on the doorknob as his eyes continued to scour his visitor. 

“And it’s a good thing I am with as long as it takes you folks to answer a door.” John pushed himself from his reclined stance and bent down to pick up a box resting by his feet. Paul frowned, having not noticed it before. The box was rather large; not so large as to draw attention, but more so, curiosity. Even curiouser, there was no wrapping of any sort, just a brown cardboard box.

“Got you a pressie,” John said, biting his lip around a coy smile as he held the box out for emphasis when he saw where Paul’s eyes were fixed. Paul’s frown deepened, and he transferred his gaze to John rather than the mysterious package. If John was expecting excitement or surprise, he received neither. Mistrust and hesitance clashed on Paul’s face, but John maintained the act.

“R-really?” Paul asked, unsatisfied and confused by how little John’s expression told.

Finally, after a dramatic beat, “Pfft, no,” John confessed, instantly dropping the facade. “We’re not goin’ steady. When you go steady with me, I’ll buy ye gifts.” John excused plainly. To carry himself so highly, Paul sure was gullible. Teasing the smart lad amused John to no end.

Paul glared at him, mumbling “prick,” as he stepped aside to let John in. The latter gave an infuriating smile and attempted to pinch Paul’s cheek upon entering. While closing the door, the younger boy managed to dodge the mocking touch. 

Suddenly, an even younger McCartney was greeting the two teens in the front room with a beaming smile. He was thrilled to see his brother’s new, older ted friend in their home. At least, he assumed they were mates; Paul was never too keen on talking about him.

“Oi, there he is,” John said upon seeing a cleaner version of the kid he met in the ice cream shop. “Mike, right?”

“Hey, John!” the young boy offered. Silently, Paul grew agitated with each agonizing minute of interaction between John and his brother. No matter how ecstatic it made Mike, Paul wanted to guard him as best he could.

“Hey, close yer eyes for me, okay?” His nerves dancing with innocent glee, Michael did as the oldest boy bid of him while nodding fiercely. 

Paul watched on inquisitively, setting his brotherly instincts aside for once. John squatted down to be level with the eight-year-old. He gently grabbed Mike’s significantly smaller hands and placed the box in their grip. With an amused grin, he saw how the young boy bit his lip to contain his inevitable smile. Surprises were the key to any child’s heart.

“Alright, open,” John instructed. Immediately, Mike fumbled with the lid of the box with his eyes still closed. Paul found himself laughing at the situation, knowing his brother assumed John was referring to solely opening the box. At hearing the breathy laugh, John turned to look at Paul with a grin of his own. They held eye contact as the contents of the box were slowly being revealed. Paul felt like he was back in that kitchen, but this time staring dazedly into chestnut eyes. A sight admittedly more fascinating than lumpy potatoes. And John…well, he was rather speechless himself.

“Well, what is it?!” The cry was boisterous enough to break whatever spell had fallen between the two older boys, the youngest of the three still being blind to the sight. 

“You gotta open yer eyes to find out, Mike,” John said around a laugh. He could feel Paul’s stare still boring into him but refused to acknowledge it just yet. He focused on the sight of Michael opening his eyes and welcoming his latest gift. John thought he heard a jaw bone crack as it expanded to its full extent while his eyes widened considerably. 

Even Paul’s eyebrows rose in surprise at what his brother’s gift. The mystery item was a pair of child-sized, black leather boots--a miniature version of the kind so many blokes wore, and they were polished to perfection. 

“Bloody hell,” Mike exclaimed in awe. Paul was so stunned he almost forgot to warn his brother about his language. Almost.

“‘Ey, watch it.”

“Aw, c’mon, McCartney, let the boy have his fun,” John insisted, rising from his crouched position. Paul finally turned his bafflement towards John.

“John, how--why did you--” Paul began, only to be cut short.

“Don’t worry about it. A gift’s a gift, and I don’t want you tryin’ to give it back.” John turned his attention to the young boy who was determinedly trying to force his foot into his new boot with the assistance of the floor and a couch. Addressing Paul again, he said, “Besides, the kid was running around with his shoes untied. Can’t have ‘im lookin’ like a hooligan now, can we?” He smirked and lifted his eyebrows at Paul, daring him to disagree.

Shaking his head at the gesture rather than the words, Paul made his way over to his brother. Using the heel of the boot, he successfully pushed it onto Mike’s foot. “What d’ye say, Mikey?”

The second both boots were on, Mike wasted no time in darting over to John and wrapping as much of him as he could reach in a bear hug. “Thank you, Johnny.”

The older boy hesitantly laughed and awkwardly patted the boy’s head. “Yeah, don’t mention it,” he mumbled. When Mike made it apparent that he wasn’t releasing his grip anytime soon, he looked to Paul for help. “Paul, I don’t like when children touch me,” he warned, losing all grips with subtlety.

Paul laughed at the confession and spoke up to intervene. “Alright, Mikey, I think he’s had enough. Why don’t you go finish yer dinner.” 

As Michael scampered off, Paul had trouble coming to terms with everything that just happened. He never expected someone like John to come into his house and welcome his brother with open arms. The two were essentially polar opposites--the picture of innocence and the picture of corruption. For fuck’s sake, the lad was giving Paul drugs but giving his brother new shoes. It was an extremely exhausting concept to wrap his head around. 

Paul turned to John, who had already been watching him, and anxiously rubbed at his neck while avoiding eye contact. “Um…thanks for that. Ye didn’t have to do that, and even though you probably used drug money, it was still, um…nice.”

“Bit presumptuous of you, Paul, considering I actually used some gig money for ‘em. But thanks for thinkin’ so lowly of me,” John bit back, offended by the suggestion.

Paul reflexively looked up at the defensive tone. His eyes widened fractionally, and he immediately made to apologize. “‘M sorry, John--but in my defense--”

“I’m just kidding, Paul.” He smiled once again at the traps he could so easily lay at the boy’s feet. Once John saw him visibly relax, he added, “It actually  _ was _ drug money.” When Paul smiled at that, John felt like he’d just made it to the top of a steep hill--victorious, confident, devoted to making that smile appear as many times a day as possible. Something that bright was too beautiful to hide away from the rest of the world.

“Asshole,” Paul murmured as he made his way into the kitchen. As John followed, he thought only Paul had the ability to make an insult feel like a compliment. Before he crossed the kitchen’s threshold, the rough ted realized he was truly fucked.

Placing his hand on the back of Mike’s chair, Paul asked, “Think you’ll be okay for a while, Mike? ‘M goin’ out with John, and da’ will be home soon.” Before Michael could give his consent, John butted in from his spot at the doorway where he stood in a position similar to the one in which Paul initially found him.

“Hang on a mo’ there, McCartney.” As heads turned to meet him, he sauntered over to the duo at the table. “We ain’t goin’ nowhere with you lookin’ like that, son. I’ve got a reputation to keep here, and you’ll bloody ruin it.” With Paul being the visual antithesis of John, the older lad would be ridiculed in a heartbeat. Plus, John couldn’t wait to see what Paul would look like with the slicked back hair of a ted. He grabbed Paul’s wrist, ignoring the indignant frown and dragging him out of the room. “Stay here, Mitchell,” he tossed over his shoulder as they retreated.

“It’s Michael!”

“Whatever!”

After making it out of the main rooms of the house, John realized he had no idea where he was going. “Where’s the loo?” he asked, maintaining a grip on Paul and refusing to stop for fear the boy would jerk away. 

“John, what’re you doing?” Paul grew increasingly aggravated at being dragged around like a ragdoll. He hated that John felt the need to change who Paul was before they could even be seen together. It was the other lad’s idea in the first place; if he was so ashamed to be seen with Paul, he shouldn’t have bloody well asked him out in the first place.

“Shut up and tell me where the bloody loo is.” John pressed, glancing in rooms like a madman. For this to be his first visit, he certainly made himself at home. 

Sighing, Paul relented. “Upstairs, door on the left.” 

They trekked up the stairs, the feeling of John’s fingers wrapped around his wrist beginning to feel warm and familiar. Paul knew he’d be cold once the feeling was gone--left exposed even though each slender finger posing as a bracelet was merely around his wrist. John so desperately wanted to slide his hand down that much farther and slot their fingers together. But he hadn’t the right, and it would only turn Paul off of any contact altogether.

John pushed the door open and flicked on the light. He took a moment to absorb the appearance of the room--the way the contents of the counter were neatly arranged, every inch of porcelain in the room shining flawlessly. Belatedly, he realized the whole house had a bit of a woman’s touch though one was not currently present. Feeling too daft for breathing in the essence of the room, John maneuvered Paul to the closed toilet.

“Sit,” he instructed. He looked over the various bottles on the countertop while Paul remained standing. When he felt rather than saw the boy’s lack of movement, he froze with a bottle in his hand and questioningly looked at him.

“Why?” Paul countered, knowing how dangerous it would be for him to follow too many of John’s commands.

“Please?” John gave his most genuine look of desperation. Hitching his eyebrows up slightly, his almond-shaped eyes widened into his most lethal puppy-dog expression. When Paul huffed and sat down, he turned back to his task in an attempt to hide the grin expanding across his face.

Okay, so maybe one more command was harmless.

“Will you at least tell me what you plan to do?”

“‘M gonna fix yer hair,” John said casually. His fingers already itched with the temptation to tease and style Paul’s hair in a do similar to his own as he read the blurry labels on the bottles through which he sifted. When he recognized a jar of Brylcreem among the various tubes and cans, he immediately reached for it.

“There’s nothing wrong with me hair,” Paul mumbled, not so sure he believed it himself. He’d seen blokes on the street, confident and cocksure because their hair was something of which to be envious. And Paul was. The one time he’d tried to style his hair into a DA, his spirits fell as flat as the do itself. He picked at his nails as he mulled over the thoughts of consenting to John or defying him. 

John stood before his seated form with the jar already open and a hefty amount of gel in his hand. Paul met his eye when he felt his presence loom over him. There was a dominance in his stance but a softness in his eyes. Both frightened Paul in different ways.

“Ye know, sometimes life’s easier when you put it in other people’s hands for a while,” John said. It was supposed to reassure a boy who looked all too cynical to be sixteen--to give him a breather, loosen him up. At only eighteen himself, John could see Paul was too wound up to even know how to enjoy a good thing when he got it.

Paul could only gawk at the unexpected intelligence. He supposed John’s previous dig about Paul underestimating him was not entirely unfounded. Too often, he gave that rough exterior an unfair evaluation. John was full of surprises.

When Paul failed to answer, John smiled, and softly said, “Sit up for me.” To reinforce his words, he placed the fingers of the hand still holding the jar under the younger boy’s chin, gently guiding his head upwards for a more manageable angle.

Paul’s mouth parted at the sensual atmosphere in the room. The room compacted on itself, leaving boundless amounts of energy to fester between he and John. Every touch was electric, every sound booming, every smell overpowering.

When John tentatively moved his gel-coated fingers towards Paul’s hair, he was glued to his seat in anticipation. The touch began at the left side of his head, starting near his temple and just above his ear before pushing the hair backwards. With every repetition of the touch, Paul’s eyes grew heavier, fluttering pleasurably until it turned into a tug-of-war with gravity. 

John’s hands were so trained at styling this particular look that he spent his time watching Paul rather than his actions. Pleasant sighs ghosted past his lips with every sweep of John’s fingers; his eyes were the color of whiskey, and John was drunk on the sight. 

“You smell like smoke,” Paul breathed, subtly inhaling the scent and thrilling in the burn it conjured in his own lungs and nostrils. It was a smell that choked him a matter of days ago--clogging the pores of his lungs and tying a knot around each respiratory organ--but now it was no longer considered cigarette smoke. It was just  _ John. _ With a new connotation, the earthy tang made him breath effortlessly rather than laboriously. 

Paul realized it was a random and idiotic comment, but John didn’t even laugh at the unfiltered thought. “You don’t,” he responded just as quietly. A daft enough response to make Paul feel like he wasn’t sinking in that boat alone. John was with him, and they would sink together.

Paul’s own smell was indistinguishable; something he’d never smelled anywhere else. The kind of smell that requires more than one whiff, inhaling ceaselessly to attempt to place such a fragrance…only he can’t. Because it smells so familiar, but the innermost workings of his mind and senses know there’s never been a scent like it. The irreplicable saltiness of the ocean; fresh cut grass on a summer’s day; the tang of old books; and Paul’s scent was defined somewhere amidst all of these other elusive ones. 

It seemed like the center of this individual scent resided in Paul’s hair. John wasn’t so close as to be able to nuzzle into the locks and breathe Paul in until he was breathless, but from less than a foot away, the sweetness tantalizingly emanated into John’s senses. He began to feel as though he were panting for air as he carded his fingers through the dark strands--selfishly refusing to use a comb because the touch was too satisfying. With each lock the feather of a raven’s wing, flowing with all the grace of a bird in flight, John soared from this new high he discovered by being so close to someone so ethereal. 

Paul’s eyes involuntarily fluttered closed when John began styling his fringe, brushing up and together to create a bit of a peak--a quiff like a silhouetted sea. Deciding to keep his eyes shut and enjoy the ministrations, he felt John scrunch the thick hair in his hand to add a bit of curl. Amidst the peaceful trance he had found himself in, Paul slowly opened his eyes when we perceived John squat in front of him. Warm breath ghosted over his own face and a hand came to rest on his knee for stability as John squinted up at his DA and continued to touch it up. 

There was a fierce look of concentration on the older boy’s face--the squint in his heavy eyes, the alternation of biting his lip or poking his tongue between them. Paul’s senses were conflicted between resting his sultry eyes on John or losing himself in the feeling of the boy’s fingers. With a few final sweeps that seemed to intentionally brush Paul’s forehead, John removed his hand from his hair and rested it on Paul’s other knee.

“Done,” John whispered, afraid to shatter the fragile intimacy. Paul held his gaze through cloudy vision, hot and cold all over with something lodged deep within his throat. The foreign feeling and John’s proximity made his stomach clench in anticipation. So he was relieved when the room expanded back to its normal size as soon as he rose to his feet. His legs were shaky and uncertain while he made his way to stand in front of the mirror. 

John was still momentarily dazed from the heady contact but recovered smoothly as he moved to stand behind Paul. He grinned in pride at his work and even touched up the back of the DA while Paul gawked in the mirror. The younger boy cautiously touched a hand to his hair, convinced it was now as fragile as the glass at which he stared. 

He didn’t feel like himself at all. That bloke in the mirror wasn’t Paul McCartney. His hair stood proud--no longer flat across his head with each lock the thread of a blanket to shield himself from the world. John had given him just enough volume on top and slicked the sides back so not a single hair was out of place. But aside from the finely sculpted locks, Paul felt different on the inside. Looking within the depths of his own irises in the mirror, confidence clearly brimmed within him, solidifying his bones and pumping his blood. The surge was exhilarating. 

“See, just like Elvis,” John said, moving to stand behind Paul’s left shoulder so he could catch his eye in the mirror. A smile crept to his lips at the younger boy’s awestruck face.

“Yeah, not bad,” Paul breathed in surprise, turning his head to see every angle of his hair.

“C’mon, McCartney, give me a little more credit than that,” John cajoled, nudging Paul’s side. Truthfully, he put more time and effort into it than he ever would his own hair. 

Paul relented a grin at John’s subtle need of approval. “Alright, it’s not bad, yeah?” He lightly jabbed John with his elbow before turning to face him. Their sudden propinquity took his breath away and caused him to subtly press into the counter behind him. He felt like a hunted animal cornering itself into any available means of shelter. There were feral and predatory natures emanating from John and with every moment spent in his presence, Paul found himself drawn towards them like a magnet. 

Smirking, John took a step forward with his eyes locked on Paul. He was in a power trip, and Paul was making it all too easy for him to stay in it. With his hair no longer covering his face, John could see every trace of innocence--his pupils dilated wide and telling, his mouth just barely parted but looking so plump, his eyebrows arched to perfection.

_ You already look like yer mine. _

But John was an expert at defying expectations.  

So instead of doing anything Paul may have anticipated...or wanted, he asked, “Ready to go?” Internalizing the question, he pondered an answer himself. Was  _ he  _ ready to go? Could John handle whatever infatuation he had with this boy for a whole evening when he already grew breathless just by being in the same room with him?

His thoughts crumbled when Paul responded, though it was nonverbal. McCartney slightly turned his head to the side, avoiding eye contact, and nodded. On the counter, his hands had a vice grip around the laminate, turning as white as the surface itself. The feeling grounded him, convinced him that he was still here and still in control. 

Deep brown remained locked on Paul’s face for a moment longer before he received a nod in return. Silently, John led the way out of the bathroom with a confident smirk, leaving Paul to tag along on his own time.   

Before they left the house, Paul made sure to fulfill his brotherly duties by reciting a list of rules and warnings of which any middle-aged mother would be proud. By the third one, John found more interesting things to focus on. Namely, Paul’s ass. Biting his lip and staring at the denim-clad beauty made any amount of the overprotective lad’s droning much more tolerable.

When Michael began to look as mind-numbed as John felt, they finally left the boy, Paul giving him a hug goodbye. While Paul grabbed his coat by the front door, John poked his head inside the kitchen to leave Mike with one last word of advice.

“Don’t wait up for yer brother, Mikey. I’m gonna need to borrow him for a while tonight.” With a wink and click of his tongue, John ducked out of the room before the young lad responded.  

Paul left the front door open so John could meet him on the front step. As nimble fingers jiggled the doorknob to ensure it locked securely, John wore a fond smile at the overbearing gesture. Though they lived in a fairly safe neighborhood, Paul could never live with himself if something happened to his younger brother on account of his absence.

Satisfied with the stability of the lock, Paul turned to John with a sigh. “So, do you actually have somethin’ planned?”

“Oh, I’ve got a few things in mind.” Mischief dripped from every ambiguous word. Paul should have predicted the outcome of the night from that devilish smile alone, but a hand grasping his elbow whisked him away before the thought had time to settle. “Come along now, Paul. There’s a world outside of school books that I think you’d rather enjoy.”

They reached the end of the walk and Paul’s defenses. For one night, Paul spoiled himself by placing his life into John’s hands. Neglecting responsibility, he mentally jumped into the back pocket of the teddy boy’s leather trousers to tag along for the ride. The hands that pushed him those pills now harnessed the power to push him from the cliff of sensibility and into a pit of debauchery. 

But with John now temporarily steering his existence, Paul stripped himself of the burden of thinking. Anxious thoughts would only send his feet strolling in the opposite direction and back within the simplicity of his home. He refused to live that life tonight. He could handle whatever John threw at him.

Because unlike John, Paul had self-control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The date officially begins in the next chapter! I'm sorry if you expected it this chapter; cruel cliffhangers are always fun, am I right?! I'm finishing up writing their date now, and I'm getting a little stuck. Please send me any virtual inspiration you have! Lol, just kidding, hopefully some good stuff will come to me here soon.
> 
> Also, I wanted to mention if I misuse any 'slang' or geographical information, it's because I'm American and know fuck-all about British vernacular and geography. I think it's the best, though!
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and reads! It makes my day :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to split the date into at least two chapters (maybe three). I hope this doesn't disappoint because I know some of you were excited for it.
> 
> One of the songs mentioned in this chapter is "Little Darlin'" by The Diamonds, and I suggest giving it a listen before or while you read the scene in which it's included. Personally, I think it sets the atmosphere and helps the scene make better sense. I had to listen to it constantly to write it.
> 
> Finally, I want to assure you that Ringo *is* in this fic. It was hard to find a place for him, but I promise he's coming (not in this chapter, but he's coming!). So for all of you who are like 'dude, where the fuck is Ringo?', I'm sorry, it's just my lack of creativity!

“No bloody way--I’m not doin’ that, John,” Paul hissed, keeping his voice out of range from prying ears and watchful shopkeepers. The two boys’ huddled forms aroused enough suspicion without the hushed whispers. Funny how the quieter they got, the more people wanted to hear.

“Aw, c’mon, Paul, live a little!” John pleaded. In his own experienced eyes, the request was simple enough. By overloading his brain with hypotheticals, Paul drew more attention to them than necessary. “Yer just bein’ paranoid. Look, no one’s even watchin’.” John turned from their secluded corner and subtly gestured towards the center of the shop.

Folks flicked through albums like they were sheets of paper, picking up speed as they neared the end of a stack. One of the store’s employees flitted about, restocking crates, while the other sat behind the counter, preoccupied by a newspaper. Around them, a Chuck Berry album spun to a halt, crooning the final notes of  “School Day” in its passing. Needless to say, two disreputable young teens were not the center of attention for once.

“‘M not a thief, John,” Paul mumbled, settling his eyes on the carpet. Ironically, he felt ashamed for fighting for the morally upstanding case. John’s relentless stare made him feel more pushed into the corner of the store than he actually was. “Why do you even need ta nick one if ye got the money for it?”

“Because a stolen record is an earned record. There’s a story behind it that makes you appreciate the music more.” John had nicked over half of the records in his collection at home. Every time he listened to one, it always sung him the tale of how it came to reside on his shelf.

Paul scoffed dismissively. “I find that hard to believe. The music speaks for itself.” He met John’s bright browns with doubtful hazels. But there was something in John’s that he silently begged Paul to see--a burning excitement Paul could discover if he’d only open his eyes to the opportunities around them.

“Well, that’s because ye’ve never done it.”

Paul sighed, knowing John had wormed his way into Paul’s better sensibility and bested him. What right had he to speak against something he’d never tried himself? _‘Don’t knock it ‘til ye try it,’_ isn’t that what John had told him? Though they had been discussing a different subject at the time, Paul knew it applied to any new experience.

When Paul’s silence informed John he didn’t plan to answer anytime soon, the older boy sighed and spoke again.

“You know what? Fine. ‘M not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do,” John confessed, scratching at the back of his head as he stepped away from Paul, giving him a chance to breathe air unpolluted by temptation. “Grab some records and we’ll snag a booth.” Referencing the stack within his own hands, John reserved them a listening booth at the back of the store.

With furrowed brows, Paul gaped after John. _‘M not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna do…._ What kind of intimidation tactic was that? No fight; no persuasion? Unless John was using reverse psychology, Paul wondered how the boy ever managed to make a sale a day in his life with such sudden acceptance of refusals.

Where were all of the rumors Paul heard about this boy? George forever warned him of the immorality John embodied, but Paul still had a clean criminal record after spending roughly an hour with him. And he had even toned down the incessant flirting. Surely, other blokes wouldn’t go around spreading unfounded rumors just to boost one lad’s ego.

_So why is he changing?_

Shaking his head, Paul accumulated a small pile of records to take inside the listening booth. This shop, unlike others, had more private booths where customers could step inside and close the door behind them--isolating themselves in a solitude of music. A small box and good music transported listeners into a world with melodic songbirds and flowing streams of  music notes.

Squeezing himself into the cramped booth, Paul refused to deny himself such an unsurpassed experience. No sooner had he stepped inside, than John thrusted headphones over his head. Paul barely had time to clutch either earpiece and stable the headphones on top of his head before John bombarded him with his own enthusiasm.

“‘Ey, get a load of tha’!” As soon as the words left his mouth, an upbeat number clambered its way into Paul’s ears. His eyebrows shot up on their own accord, and a smile slowly crept across his lips. Initially, Paul’s wide eyes glued themselves to the wall in front of them, but as realization about what he was hearing sank in, he turned the incandescent look towards John. The latter smiled just as brightly, nodding his head in recognition and empathy of Paul’s experience.

“Bloody hell, that’s brilliant.” Overjoyed, the exclamation came out louder than necessary in the small booth. John laughed at him--at the genuine excitement exploding on his gorgeous face and the volume at which the young boy expressed it.

The gold pouring into their booth was Buddy Holly’s revamped and raucous version of Little Richard’s “Ready Teddy”. Rough vocals and speedy backbeats revealed a side of one of their heroes they’d never before heard. Fast-paced, vibrant, and swimming through Paul’s nerve endings with pulsing energy.

“Almost doesn’t sound like ‘im, yeah?” John asked. Paul nodded fiercely in agreement. As he began to reply, the song slowed to a stop before switching to the next track on the album. Frowning in concentration, Paul absorbed the beginning notes of a distinctively slower song. A dichotomy of sound, and the musical genius had placed it dead in the center of the album.

When Paul’s features twisted to reveal a new song was playing, John forced himself into the music. He moved his head alongside Paul’s, momentarily startling the younger lad, and pulled at the right earpiece so he could listen, as well.

_Everyday it’s a-gettin’ closer_

_Goin’ faster than a roller coaster_

_Love like yours_

_Will surely come my way, a-hey, a-hey, hey_

Such a cheery tune brought a grin to John’s face. In their awkward position, he cut his eyes to Paul who seemed to be undergoing similar effects from the tune. The song in his ears and the boy by his side yielded a childlike giddiness within John--an emotion of which he always convinced himself he was devoid.  

_Everyday it’s a-gettin’ faster_

_Everyone said, “Go ahead and ask her”_

_Love like yours_

_Will surely come my way, a-hey, a-hey, hey_

By the time the brief chorus came around again, John was familiarized with the beat. Predicting the _a-hey, a-hey, hey,_ he bumped Paul’s hip in time with the rhythm. A laugh escaped the younger boy and melted the older’s heart. The succeeding full-wattage smile was unsuppressable, and the atmosphere enveloping them only encouraged it, so he wrapped an arm snugly around Paul’s shoulders, keeping him close and swaying both of them to the music.

With a cartwheeling stomach, Paul couldn’t even bring himself to shy away from John’s touch. The fingers gripping his left shoulder were firm and sure, and Paul physically restrained himself from ducking into the warmth of the older lad’s side. Acting on a whim, however, he slowly secured an arm around John’s waist.

_Love like yours will surely come my way._

Paul closed his eyes and let the lyrics (and consequently the thought) sink in; let them settle within the creases of his mind and the valves of his heart. It sounded good enough when a bloke in a studio sang about it; but Paul was a bloke living it--getting in over his head and treading dangerous waters. It was only a matter of time before he drifted under, drowning in the reality of what this situation could become.

“What kinda bloke starts wankin’ in the middle of recordin’?” John suddenly asked over the chime of an instrumental interlude in the song. Paul strained his ears and concluded that the backbeat of the music sounded strikingly similar to a lad getting his jollies.

At the thought and visual image it created, Paul collapsed into a fit of laughter. Unable to control the roar of it, he used John for support as not to fall into a heap on the floor. He tucked his head into the leather covering his shoulder to muffle his snickers. Eventually, a hand came to settle on his right hip, and he could feel John hiding smiles into his dark hair. The headphones hung loosely around his neck, leaving the both of them shrouded in silence, save for the distant hum of the record still spinning.

As his bout of laughter quieted, Paul took a deep breath, the smell of cologne and smoke greeting his lungs. His hands rested at John’s waist, clutching at the thick leather of his jacket; for all he was worth, Paul could not wipe that stupidly endearing smile from his face. Or rather, he didn’t want to. Laughter was a cleansing air--filling him with fragrances not found anywhere else.

Finally finding composure, he lifted his head slightly to a beaming John. “Yer right daft, you know that?” Paul asked fondly. Before responding, John took in the sight of Paul all aglow. His cheeks swelled adorably with the weight of his smile, causing his eyes to crinkle and his nose to scrunch. John had to brush away the notion to lean in and kiss every inch of that stunning face.

Instead, he said smiling, “I’m not the one who put it on the bleedin’ track. They should’ve known what that would sound like to a bunch of randy teenage lads.”

Paul coyly looked away and shook his head with a small grin. Upon looking down, he noticed he continued to fist John’s jacket in his hands as if he were still caught in the moment of laughter. He slowly relinquished his grip, leaving both feeling empty at the loss of contact.

Still smiling, John reached out for the headphones draped around Paul’s neck and gently removed them. The younger boy followed the movement with his eyes before locking them on John’s, finding a captivating softness there.

_Who else does he treat this way? Who else gets to see such a warmth in those eyes?_

“Let’s get outta here,” John said softly. With that, he placed the headphones back on their stand and lifted the needle on the player. Turning around, he saw Paul filtering through the stack of records he had brought into the booth. “What’d you grab?” he asked.

“Got Little Richard’s newest one and an Elvis one I don’t have yet,” Paul said, holding the albums out in front of him as he and John looked over them.

“You gonna get ‘em?”

Paul shrugged. “Don’t really have the money right now. I’ll come back for ‘em.”

Nodding, John opened the door to their booth and led them out. When they entered the main part of the store, a familiar tune began to play and a wicked idea popped into John’s head. _He may not have the money, but I’ve got the skill._ With a shit-eating grin, he turned to Paul who merely quirked his eyebrows in question.

Finally, the lyrics to “Little Darlin’” by The Diamonds kicked in, and John launched into an interpretive, impromptu performance complete with exaggerated gestures and lip syncing. Using Paul as his “little darlin’” throughout the performance, he snatched the records out of the younger boy’s hands and kneeled before him, mouthing the words to the first verse.

By now, they had attracted more attention than they ever had when they first walked in. A majority of the customers watched in glee at the lunatic in the middle of the store while only a small handful ignored the stunt altogether.

Paul had no idea what to think of the whole production. Initially, he was mortified by the sudden outburst, his cheeks reddening and his posture shrinking in an effort to disappear entirely. As it progressed, however, he found himself smiling at the daft facial expressions and look of passion with which John sang. The rough ted ironically molded perfectly into the role, pouring every ounce of theatrics he could into the song and into the role of a desperate lover.

At one point, John began to dramatically fan himself with the records he snagged from Paul as he swiftly waltzed throughout the small aisles of shelves. Paul stayed frozen in place, animatedly eyeing John as he flitted about the store. When the brief, baritone monologue began in the middle of the song, John reaffirmed his place in front of Paul and held one of his hands. Giving his best sultry stare, he lowly murmured the words to the baffled boy.

Amidst John’s faux wooing, Paul fleetingly thought, _You make it so hard not to get attached…._

As the final verse kicked in, he tugged Paul away with him down the aisles. John led them through a quick and sloppy tango around the store. The small stack of albums were held in the hand he placed at Paul’s back for safer keeping during such an uncoordinated routine. His stomach fluttered at the feeling of Paul pressing into him; Paul’s soft hand in his; Paul’s boisterous laugh drifting into his ears, and his doe eyes shining for John and John alone.

A world around them with no one in it. They were untouchable and fearless.

The lunatic leading their number subtly moved them closer to the front door while continuing the dance. The adrenaline in his veins flowed as fast as the music. As the last verse ended, John grabbed a handful of 45’s from a small box near the door and prepared himself for the three final notes of the song.

In time with the three last percussive beats of the tune, he tossed one hand into the air with a matador pose and called out to all of the patrons who had their eyes glued to the duo at the front, “Cha cha cha!” With a cheeky smile, he darted out of the store with Paul and the records in tow.

Finally realizing the dramatics were merely a ploy to nick a few records, the shopkeeper who had been restacking inventory immediately dropped what he was doing to chase after the two troublemakers. With Paul’s hand in his and a pile of loot in the other, John led them down Liverpool’s streets to escape the consequences of their actions.

_Runnin’ with the devil…._

Whooping and hollering, John’s blood ran hot at the thrill of a chase. Similarly, he heard a few carefree laughs escaping Paul who was only a step behind and clutching onto his hand. John’s beautiful partner in crime.

When the older boy glanced behind his shoulder, he saw the employee tailing them was a few yards behind. Weaving through the streets, the boys finally sought refuge in a darkened alleyway within the nick of time. John pushed Paul against the brick of the alley to shelter both of their faces just as the older man ran past its opening, oblivious to the fact they hid themselves within it.

Snickering quietly, they ducked their heads--foreheads nearly touching--until they no longer heard the patter of boots on pavement. John had a hand firmly planted onto the brick just beside Paul’s head, another subconscious attempt to shield their faces. Their bodies were just a hair’s breadth away from being flush against one another. With the way Paul’s hands clutched the lapels of John’s jacket, it seemed he was the one to blame for their close proximity. Gazes steadied and breaths mingled until there was no air left between them at all.

It was John who made the executive decision to close the gap separating the heat of their bodies. Had he not been standing so close, he would have missed the quiet gasp that escaped Paul’s lips when their abdomens pressed together. After that, those full, luscious lips were the only thing John’s myopic eyes could see clearly.

Noticing the older boy’s stare, Paul’s throat bobbed in anticipation. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to feel a warmth pooling any and everywhere John touched him. John was the bad boy--the one who broke hearts by crushing them with the heel of his leather boots. Paul was too smart for him--too _good_ for him.

And Paul wasn’t queer. This thing he felt for John was just caused by years of suppressed lust. While other boys his age went out to chase skirts, Paul always stayed at home to keep things in order until his father came back. No matter how sexually frustrated he felt, Paul couldn’t give John the satisfaction of sweet-talking his way into his trousers. Admittedly, the older lad was tempting with his rocker look and fuck-all attitude, but just the prospect of hooking up spelled trouble for both parties.

Oblivious to Paul’s most recent conclusion and caught up in the moment, John leaned in and peppered the young boy’s neck with kisses. Unexpectedly, the skin tasted sweet beneath his lips and smelled fresh--like clean linens. It was all John could do not to bite down every time his mouth made contact; even though he never hesitated to be rough with his partners before, he couldn’t bring himself to scar the pale expanse of Paul’s neck. Not yet, anyway; not until the boy was officially his. So, instead, he contented himself with ghosting his lips everywhere from the collar of his shirt to the soft places behind his ear, occasionally licking trails along the way.

Involuntarily, Paul’s eyes fluttered shut from the sensation of John’s mouth working at his neck. He could actually feel himself stir in his pants, and it was the implications of his own physical reactions that jarred him back to reality.

_You dense fuck. You literally just came up with several reasons why not to get involved._

He grabbed for John’s shoulders, expecting his arms to push the boy away, but they faltered and remained stagnant. Hoping other parts of his body would obey him, he said, “John.”

“What?” he asked, barely removing his lips long enough to speak, causing the words to be mumbled into Paul’s neck.

“Stop,” Paul almost moaned.

“Why?” John whispered in his ear, nibbling at his earlobe and almost recreating the first touch they ever had with one another.

“Just…slow down, yeah?” Breathless, John finally looked up at that.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, concern etched on his face.

“Nothing--I mean, we were havin’ a good time n’ all and…I don’t know, really…,” Paul said, not understanding the argument he pegged either.

“Yeah, and we could be havin’ an even better time if you let me finish,” John said, flashing a cheeky smirk and leaning back in.

Somehow amused by that, Paul spoke around a laugh, “John, stop.” He gently pushed the randy lad back far enough for both of them to take a breath and gain some composure. “If you’re gonna teach me about the fast-paced life, I’m gonna teach you how to take a step back and enjoy a good thing.”

“And you think you’re a good thing?”

“Good enough for you, it seems.”

Biting his lip on a grin, John could only respond, “You’re something else, McCartney.” The dilated pupils in those hazel eyes struck John with a sudden idea. “Hold these,” he said, thrusting the records they’d nicked into the younger boy’s hands. With a confused frown, Paul accepted them and watched curiously as John rooted into the pocket of his trousers. He procured a little baggy that increasingly became familiar to Paul over the last few days. Dropping a pill into his hand, he held it out to Paul. “Take this,” John instructed.

“What? Why?” Stubborn as ever, McCartney never refused a chance to question a command.

Sighing, John explained, “Well, I get to have ye for the whole night, don’t I? I want you to be up for what I ‘ave planned next.”

“We never agreed on the whole night,” Paul said, quirking an eyebrow in defiance and attempting to withhold a smug smirk.

“Do you _really_ wanna go home now?” Raising a brow of his own, John countered the argument.

The younger boy faltered at the question. _Did_ he want to go back home? Back to that place of palpable silence where he’d only lock himself into seclusion until his regularly scheduled routines greeted him upon morning. Mike was the only reason he tolerated that house as much as he did. This night with John was _his_ night--the first semblance of excitement he’s had since his world began crumbling at his feet. The first time he’d felt like he could run without falling. The feeling John gave him and the possibilities he introduced him to were too invigorating to give up.

Taking Paul’s silence as enough of an answer, John nodded in self-confirmation. The faraway look in his tell-tale eyes informed John that his mate was caught in a web he never meant to weave. “That’s what I thought. Now open up, baby,” John said, trying his luck with temptation again.

And inexcusably, Paul did. Maybe it was the impotence of his own argument or the smoothness of John’s voice when he called him _‘baby’._ But for some reason, Paul felt safe in that alley. He and his secretes consumed and hidden by the darkness. The night was out of his control. Everything that negated the morals he stood for was sheathed in a black mask, covering his conscience so he could live this night freely.

When Paul’s jaw slowly loosened and opened enough for John to place the tiny pill on his tongue, he could feel its effects long before they were meant to show. The air around him and the blood in his veins thickened. After their heady interaction, Paul surprised himself with having enough saliva to actually swallow the thing.

“You not gonna take one?” Paul asked, noticing John only continued to stare at him with fiery eyes--most likely aroused by the sight of Paul obeying his every whim.

“Don’t need it,” John defended simply. “Plus, a dealer should never use his own supply.”

_And I’m already high on you. The way you look--the way you feel. It’s the most addictive thing I’ve ever had._

Before his thoughts could race away much farther, John escaped the near tangle of limbs they’d come to and nodded his head towards the mouth of the alley. “Let’s be goin’, then. I got a mate who can do us some favors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, part two of the date will be coming next chapter. I finally got out of that small writer's block and wrote some decent stuff. 
> 
> Questions? Comments? Concerns? I hope this part didn't seem too uneventful. Let me know what you thought! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! You are all so wonderful!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split their night out into three parts so that this chapter wouldn't be too long. I hope the influences are becoming clearer; you certainly have to look close haha. But I don't want it to come across like there's an imbalance. I've been working to make sure the influences are clear on both sides.
> 
> I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Ah, the warmth of a pub. The heat was palpable before alcohol even coursed through the veins. Drunk on the atmosphere and intoxicated by the smell--musky and smoky as all pubs should be. A safe haven to create and cure heartbreak. The lip of the bottle more satisfying than the most passionate kiss.

Honestly, Paul should have seen it coming. The pub’s sign glowed more vibrantly and brightly than any other on the street, beckoning them with a crooked finger. When it howled out the promise of slurred speech and fuzzy heads, Paul could already see John’s feet tranced into obeying the call. Paul himself thirsted after a cool liquid to quench the dryness of his throat, and if this was the only way to satiate it, then so be it. Having worked at the pub down in Berkshire, he truthfully had no qualms with the atmosphere. When it wasn’t rowdy and obnoxious, there was a relaxed undercurrent, sweeping him away into good music and interesting people.

It was one of Liverpool’s smaller pubs, and for tonight, it was only moderately packed with drinkers. From the jukebox, a bluesy tune filled the place with rhythm and somberness. The men looked gruff and the women looked tarty--a suitable combination. So far, Paul deemed himself the most civilized person in the bar; but considering he was still in a bar, he wasn’t sure how proud he should be of that fact.

With Paul following behind, John led them over to the bar where a friendly face awaited behind the counter. The mate doing the favors, Paul assumed.

“‘Ey up, Johnny,” a short bartender greeted. A sea of bright blue swam to the forefront of the man’s eyes, pulling his newest customers further within their depths. His large nose did nothing to obstruct the pleasant width of his smile.

“Enough with the formalities, Ritchie. Get us some pints, would ye?” John said amicably, seating himself on one of the stools at the near-empty bar. Paul followed suit, sinking into his seat as slowly as he sank into the ambiance. He placed their nicked records on the counter-top in front of him.

“I’m startin’ to think the only reason we’re still mates is so you can get free booze,” he replied, turning to fulfill the request, nonetheless.

“You may be onto something there, mate.”

“Speaking of mates, who’s this one?” Ritchie asked, placing two beers on the counter and gesturing to John’s silent companion.

“S’me mate, Paul,” John said, slinging his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Isn’t he breathtaking?” He fixed Paul with a saccharine smile and batting eyelashes, only halfway teasing. The younger boy fought off a smile and merely nudged John’s side in response.

_Mates. We’re mates now._

“Aye, a little outta yer league, John, I’d say.” Taking in the soft features and wide-eyed look, the bartender offered a hand and a smile. “Nice ta meet ye, Paul. I’m Richard--Ringo to some, Ritchie to others.”

“Prick to many,” John mumbled, releasing his hold on Paul and bringing his beer to his lips.

Paul smothered the laugh threatening to spill at John's adorable grumpiness and shook Ringo’s hand, quickly learning how he earned such a nickname. “Pleasure,” he said, distractedly looking at the vast number of shimmering rings on the man’s hand. Jewels in a bar--diamonds in the rough.

Ending the handshake, Ringo turned to his friend again. “Never seen this one before, John. S’he... _new?”_ He asked, subtly trying to convey his question about John’s latest pick-up.

John shot Ringo a lethal glare, silently warning him to shut his gob. Wounded by the look, the bartender withdrew, awkwardly clearing his throat and busying himself with wiping the counter. To excuse himself from talking, John drank his beer. He didn’t want Ringo airing his dirty laundry concerning his history with other lads. John preferred to leave those garments stuffed within the depths of his closet while Paul was around. Without a doubt, any future pass at the younger boy would be seen as a desire to only take advantage of him. More and more, John realized that was the last thing he wanted to do. Something was real here. Something too precious to shatter so soon.

Feigning ignorance to the silent gestures, Paul answered for himself. “Um, actually,” he began before clearing his throat and adding, “I’ve lived here all me life, but my brother and I left town for a while. We just came back this year, and that’s when I met John.” He nodded towards the boy at his left.

At the confession, John jerked his head around at a breakneck pace to look at Paul. The latter noticed the sudden motion and turned to see a frowning Lennon. “Really? You never told me that.” He didn’t know why he expected Paul to reveal something even remotely personal to him considering how confrontational towards each other they had been in the past few days. But he wanted to know more and more about this boy.

“Not many people care,” Paul murmured, looking away from John and to his untouched beer. He wrapped his hands around the bottle, focusing on the condensation pooling on his palms.

“Maybe I do,” John responded quietly. Paul glanced back at him at the admittance, gauging the sincerity of his mate and the words. Once again, they were lost in each other’s eyes, swimming different channels but still somehow on the same wavelength.

When Ringo observed this odd encounter--one so abnormal to John’s typical behavior--he broke their reverie, feeling uncomfortable and like a third wheel. “Paul, ye haven’t touched yer beer, mate. Something wrong with that one?”

Hesitatingly retreating from the alternative state of being John took him to, Paul looked to the aforementioned drink. “Oh...I don’t drink, really,” he defended. His fingers anxiously drummed against the counter-top, a sign that the pill was starting its course. His movements were jumpier and the music was louder, bass lines thumping in his chest and piano riffs ringing in his ears. The atmosphere was more overpowering than the one he worked at down in Berkshire.

“Ye don’t drink?!” John repeated confoundedly. The information shouldn’t have stunned him considering to whom he was talking. “Christ, lad--” Before Paul knew what was happening, John was dragging him to his feet. “Keep ‘em coming, Ritchie. We’ll be at a booth in the back.” Then quietly enough so only his older friend could hear, “When that prellie kicks in, he’ll be slingin’ ‘em back in no time.”

“Aw, no, Johnny, ye didn’t,” Ringo said, disappointed yet unsurprised.

“You just stay behind the counter, nosey,” John said over his shoulder cheekily as he steered Paul to a booth with two hands on his shoulders. When they were farther out of sight from the bartender, he leaned his head over one of Paul’s shoulders and said, “Now, as for you--I’m gonna show ye what it feels like to be seein’ double.”

When they made it to an available booth, Paul sighed and haphazardly tossed their records onto the table. John’s goal for the night concerned him; but he tried to be reasonable with the lad by explaining the situation rather than jumping down his throat for being a prick. “Mate, I can’t go home pissed. My da’ will make sure I don’t live to drink another pint in me life if I do.”

John downed his beer, pushing Paul’s neglected one across the table and towards him. “Relax, love. We won’t get ye drunk--just a little buzzed.” He placed his elbows on the table, leaning forward with his eyes aglow.

“John, I don’t want any, okay? You’re honestly lucky I’ve done everything else ye asked. Learn when to lay off a lad who says no. I think you’re the one who needs to relax,” Paul said, beginning to feel annoyed by John pushing him to do any and everything. Finally, he calmed himself down, refusing to let his irritation control him, and said, “Why can’t we just talk or something? It wouldn’t kill ye to do something laid-back for once.”

John sat quietly for a moment, somewhat amused by the suggestion. _Him_ do something  _laid-back?_ It was a nice thought, but a rather difficult thing to do. Given that Paul was willing to try new things for him, though, John figured the least he could do was step into Paul’s squeaky clean shoes for a while.

“Alright, McCartney, let’s talk,” he finally agreed, leaning back into his seat to assume the relaxed air Paul so desired. “Why don’t you tell me about that big reveal at the bar?” Paul frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’d you and yer brother fuck off from Liverpool only to come back? If I ever got outta this town, I think I’d stay out.” Paul couldn’t help but agree and smiled.

“Well, it’s a long, boring story that I don’t think you’d find very interesting,” Paul said, picking at his fingernails to give his hands something to do.

“I’ll surprise you, then.” John smiled. “Maybe I like boring things.” He sat with his head cradled in his hand, completely enthralled in a conversation that hadn’t even taken off yet. Rarely could he sit through a conversation without needing some sort of stimulant to get him through it; yet, here he was, acutely absorbing the most minuscule things Paul said.

The somberness of his untouched alcohol apparently seeped through the glass and into Paul’s brain, causing him to respond with a self-deprecating, “You’d love me, then.” A pitiful laugh quickly followed.

John stared intently at the boy in front of him, vicariously feeling his pain. With a sincerity he didn’t know he had, John said, “I think I would….”

_Shut the fuck up, Lennon. The lad’s got you goin’ bloody soft._

He cleared his throat in hopes of clearing his response. As a blush rose to his cheeks, he readjusted himself in his seat and attempted to cover his tracks. “Well, tell me about this trip, mate. ‘M all ears.”

Sitting up straighter and trying to shake those words from his head, Paul decided to briefly tell John about himself even if just for an excuse to move forward from their previous conversation. He calmly recounted the cause behind his and Mike’s abrupt departure without feeling too solemn. He found John was very easy to talk to than initially assumed. The older boy listened attentively, appearing to take genuine interest in things Paul found difficulty in retelling. Not even the people he considered true friends cared enough to ask about what happened to Paul in the past year. And here he was, spilling the most hidden parts of himself onto the table for someone he only just began to call a mate.

After he’d finished, Paul found himself desperately wanting a drink. On the most necessary level, his throat itched for something cool and soothing after his wordy explanation. On a more complex level, he knew alcohol would be just enough to numb the slight pain in his heart. He had a hunch it was something his father used while he and Mike were away. And for once, taking a sip of the poison would be his own choice, not something forced upon him by John.

“Shit, mate, that’s heavy, that is,” John said, somewhat speechless after such a tale. With a piece of Paul’s heart pulsating on the table, John attempted to gather his thoughts and find a way to take away the pain. “I…I’m really sorry, Paul.”

Sorry didn’t help. Sorry didn’t make it okay. Sorry was a word with a pretty sound. Because it sounded like they meant it. It sounded like they’ve done all they could do.

But sorry wasn’t all John said.

“Y’know…my mum passed at the beginning of summer holiday. She got hit by a lorry; the wanker driving was a drunk cop.” He chose to keep his own story much simpler and vaguer. His pain was something bottled and buried deep, but it was comforting to share it with someone who actually understood it. The empathy he offered was better than any apology Paul could’ve received.

“Christ, John, that’s awful,” Paul said quietly, taken aback by the sudden news. He suddenly felt helpless, not knowing of any advice to offer his friend--having not even expected to venture into such morbid topics on their first night out.

“Kinda makes all the drinking less glamorous, eh?” Looking at the beer clutched in his own hand only served to flip a switch in John’s brain. While one boy craved the dizziness of a depressant, the other became repulsed by the very sight of it. He subtly pushed the drink away from him, slid across the booth, and rose to his feet. As he stood patting his pockets for a second, Paul lightly frowned up at him from his own seat.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“Goin’ to the bar for a smoke. Figured I wouldn’t do it here since ye don’t like it.” Their conversation had left a burn in his lungs that needed appeasing. Paradoxically, the burn of smoke soothed the burn of abandonment. It also helped him stay away from the whiskey-craving demon within him--a side of himself Paul never needed to see.

Paul’s face fell at the considerate gesture. It perplexed him slightly, but he decided not to argue if John was going to do something for _him_ for once. “Oh…yeah, thanks.” He nodded and John left him to head to the bar.

Savoring his time alone, Paul rubbed his hands down his face. It almost unnerved him how increasingly tolerable John was becoming. Of course, he couldn’t complain about the fact. Given the choice, he’d rather enjoy this night out than dread it. But the way John acted so differently than the John he met at school confused Paul immensely.

Unlike Paul, John had the privilege of actually vocalizing his internal crisis up at the bar. As Ritchie slid him a fresh beer, John silently refused and lit a cigarette instead.

“No more pints? It must be goin’ good, then, eh?” Ringo questioned, surprised by the refusal of more alcohol. “You’ve never willingly had a chat with one of yer blokes.” Pints were usually a constant request when John brought a lad in; it made the former less likely to strangle the latter.

John sighed the smoke from between his lips before responding. “Ritchie, I don’t know what’s fuckin’ wrong with me. The lad’s got me spillin’ shit about me mum,” he said, shaking his head in self-confusion and rubbing his forehead with the hand holding his cigarette. Ringo’s eyebrows hitched upwards.

“What’s so special about this one? I’ve tried to get ye to open up about Julia for months, and suddenly he comes in and does it in ten minutes?” He sounded offended, pulling the droopy-eyed look off better than anyone John knew. But he also knew it was all in jest.

“He lost his mum, too, so it’s not like I told ‘im outta nowhere, ye know…. But I think there’s something more to it--more to him.”

His head hung between his shoulders, studying the wood on the counter-top. Finally, he raised it and caught the shit-eating smirk resting on his mate’s lips. John narrowed his eyes, already knowing what his friend wanted to say. Belatedly, he realized he had just spilled uncharacteristic tenderness for another lad. For another person, at that.

“I don’t wanna hear a thing from you,” he warned, pointing an intimidating finger at the bartender.

Ringo’s grin remained, but he held his hands up in surrender. As blasé as he could manage in the wake of John’s clear discomfort, he cleaned a few glasses on the counter. John continued to smoke in contemplative silence, prolonging the time before he would inevitably return to the source of his problem.

However, bad luck strode straight up to the space beside him.

“You sell water ‘ere?” Placing his elbows on the bar-top, Paul directed his question to the bartender.

Ringo gave him a sympathetic smile but shook his head. “Ye want any water, ye’ll have to get it from the taps in the loo, mate. All we got is booze.” John chuckled before taking a draw from his cigarette.

“I wouldn’t even _piss_ in those grotty bathrooms. Do you lot even have a cleaning lass?” Ringo looked at John quizzically, the atmosphere of the place answering the question better than an employee ever could.

“We’re a pub, John, not a motel. No, we don’t have a bloody cleaner,” he answered, nonetheless.

“Well, me throat’s fuckin’ dry as a bone,” Paul butted in, not giving two fucks about the nonexistent cleaning lady.

John stubbed out his fag in a nearby ashtray and turned to face Paul with one elbow leaned against the bar. He suddenly felt rather guilty for giving Paul the pill that was causing most of his thirst and discomfort. In the dim lighting of the pub, John could see sweat gathering at his hairline and the restless way he bit at his lip. John wasn’t sure how many of his observations could solely be blamed on Paul’s typical behaviors.

Sighing, he informed, “That’s one of the side-effects. But, listen, if ye wanna leave, we can go find some…real drinks.” His thoughts continued to churn even after his words stopped. The thought that he brought Paul here against his will, doing things he didn’t want to do, felt like a kick in the gut. Realizing there was no point in imprisoning him any longer, he added, “Or if ye just wanna go home, we could call it a night.”

Paul mulled the offer over in his head. He had his hesitations at the beginning of the evening, assuming John would be a right ass. But as they got along through the night, he truthfully began to enjoy the company. Paul forgot about the excitement hidden in simply making a new friend. And admittedly, he regretted taking the pill from John in the alley now. The early stages of its effects made him more uncomfortable than energized. The fact that John underestimated his ability to have fun without a stimulant offended him, as well.

But Paul wasn’t willing to leave the pub just yet. He lacked the energy to search for a better spot for one thing, and he knew one drink wouldn’t be enough to have him falling on his ass. He was mainly there for the company, anyway.

Shaking his head to John’s offer, he casually responded, “No, it’s fine. One drink won’t hurt, and we’re having an alright time, anyway.” Confirming his decision with a single nod and tight-lipped smile, he tapped the counter before turning and heading to the booth where his neglected drink lied.

John and Ringo watched him walk off before turning to one another with mild surprise. The former wordlessly shrugged and followed his friend back to their booth. He kept his expectations for the rest of their evening low, wanting to give the calmer approach Paul suggested a try.

As his friend sat down, Paul hesitatingly eyed the glass, weighing the prospect of having alcohol absorbed into his brain. Shaking his head, he slowly brought the bottle to his lips, afraid the liquid would jump down his throat without his permission. When the brutal taste assaulted his taste buds, he cringed but swallowed nonetheless.

“Bloody hell, why do you drink this stuff?” he asked, face scrunched up in disgust. John eyed the taste test, amused and fond of the adorable reaction.

“It’s cheap and plentiful,” John offered with a shrug. Distracting himself from taking a drink from his own beer, he took a match out of his packet on the table and lit it.

“Just like bad prozzies.” Paul winked, causing John to almost lose his light with his laugh.

Blowing it out, he asked with a smile, “Am I startin’ to rub off on you, then?”

“Nah, that’s what you were doing in that alley.” He smirked and tried another sip from his beer. The ease with which he could talk to John resurfaced, and he knew it wasn’t just the effect of some verbal booster like the drink in his hand or the artificial adrenaline in his blood.

John abandoned the other matches and cradled his chin. With a sigh, he finally said, “Marry me.” The words were spoken with unabashed adoration, leaving the option for them to be taken teasingly or seriously. The blink-of-a-second quips this lad could pull off, the intellect he kept simultaneously hidden and present, and the sheer beauty of him was enough to take John’s heart for a tumble.

Paul laughed, the sound open and free. “You sure about that?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “You might not like what you see in the morning.”

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.” Beneath the table, John rubbed his foot alongside Paul’s. He smiled when Paul kept his foot in place rather than jerking away at the contact.

Paul shyly looked down and hid his coy smile with the lip of his bottle, forcing the alcohol down his throat. Over the past few hours he’d been with John, he noticed he became more tolerant of his curious and flirtatious touches. It wasn’t so much to cruelly lead John on as it was to dissect his own internal feelings towards the relationship John inevitably wanted. Could Paul go through with it? Could Paul see himself being--what, John’s _boyfriend?_ The thought felt wrong, but the touch felt right.

 

~ * ~

 

The intention to simply satiate Paul’s thirst began going downhill after the boy’s third beer. Apparently, he was also a lightweight when it came to drinking. The request for Ringo to keep their table stocked with beer surprisingly became that of Paul’s, and by the second one, the effects of the prellie were visible to a keen eye such as John’s. The lad was talking John’s ear off (not that he could complain about seeing him speak so passionately on subjects) and galaxies shown in the twinkle of his eye. Rosey-cheeked from the combination of alcohol and adrenaline swimming in his veins, and wildly gesturing as he spoke was the best side of Paul he’d seen yet. John just wished he had given him the chance to get to that point without the prellie.

Their conversation about music escalated from impassionedly sharing whom their idols were to Paul demonstrating chords John had yet to learn by using the latter’s arm as the ‘neck of a guitar.’ John obviously had no qualms with the odd teaching method as long as Paul continued to finger at the inside of his arm as if it were a fretboard. The ‘lesson’ ended in more giggles and drunken mistakes than helpful information, but John wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. How Paul would smother a laugh in John’s shoulder or cradle his arm against his chest while teaching him a chord made John want to simultaneously snog the younger boy until they were breathless and hold him in his arms until they melded together. A battle between lust and love in which Lennon was willing to engage.

Just as Paul took his first breath between talking in what seemed like an hour, he suddenly gasped sharply. John looked at him with raised brows, silently asking what caused his friend’s outburst. Because they were sitting close together on a single booth seat, Paul’s eyes seemed tenfold larger when they met John’s.

“Blokes used to play this song all the time at the bar in Berkshire! Bloody great number!” he explained, recognizing the beginning of “Please Love Me,” the first B.B. King song he was introduced to while working night shifts in his cousins’ bar.

A bluesy guitar riff infiltrated the speakers of the jukebox, filling the joint with an upbeat sound. John barely had time to put an artist and title to the song before Paul jumped to his feet, invigorated by the beat thumping in his chest. He held out his hand for John in impatient anticipation.

John jokingly shook the hand offered to him and smiled spastically. “John Lennon. Pleased to meet you.”

Paul laughed but tugged on the hand in his. “Aw, come one, Johnny. Don’t leave a lad hanging. Dance with me!” he pleaded. “I certainly hope you don’t call what we did in the store a proper dance.”

“Macca, what d’ye think people are gonna say about two blokes dancin’ together in a bar?”

"I reckon they'd think they were piss drunk. And here I was thinkin' John Lennon didn't care about labels and what other people thought. Guess I was wrong.” Paul shrugged, releasing John’s hand. “I'll just find another lad to dance with.” He turned around, facing the bulk of the customers and yelling over the roar of music and chatter. “Oi! Anybody wanna dance?!"

John was on his feet before Paul even finished the question. "Christ--okay, you maniac! Let's bloody dance." When John grabbed Paul’s hand, the younger boy led them to the small dance floor just as the lyrics kicked in.

Paul smiled like an idiot as they joined the handful of other dancers near the jukebox at the front of the bar. John eventually found the grin too contagious to resist. Leading as equals, they spun and dipped until they _were_ the music--lively, raucous, and free. The room struggled to catch up with their feet and their eyes never left the warmth of the other’s.

_Yes, you know I love you._

_I’ll do anything you tell me to._

As the second verse picked up and the reality of the lyrics made John’s head dizzy with pleasure, he spun Paul around before holding him from behind and swaying them in time to the rhythm. Elated by John pressing so close behind him--his breath just by his ear--and the feeling of their arms entwining across his chest, Paul bit his lip on his ever-present smile.

Over the clamor of the music, they heard sharp wolf-whistles coming from a distance across the bar. Turning their heads to the source, they saw Ringo howling out at the performance they gave. John flipped him the V and twirled Paul away from him and under the arch of his arm as the guitar solo sailed around them, riding invisible wavelengths to cocoon the two in an unbreakable spell.

“Don’t expect me to be the bird just because of me good looks,” Paul said over the thump of the music, a jokingly stern look on his face that was only contradicted by a bright smile. “Dip, Lennon,” he instructed. Paul supported John’s weight with a hand wrapped around his lower back, and before John knew it, he obeyed Paul’s order with his head thrown back and a leg kicked into the air to make it that much more daft. With a hearty laugh, Paul pulled him upright.

In synchronization, they shook their heads to the beat of the fast-paced drum amidst the solo. Their bodies overheated, sweat flung from their quiffs, and melodic laughter collided between them. Ringo’s incessant, teasing whistles weren’t even enough to separate them from the tight embrace they kept on one another throughout the song.

Once it finally came to a close, fellow dancers clapped their approval of the number while John and Paul clung to each other in a clumsy hug with small chuckles escaping their lips.

“Fucking hell, I have no idea how you got me to do that,” John laughed, pulling away to see Paul’s flushed face but keeping his hold on his mate’s waist. Paul grinned, his own hands settling on John’s biceps.

“Never took another lad for a spin?” he asked, smirking. Surreptitiously, he squeezed the firm muscle beneath his fingers and catalogued the feeling to memory.

“Christ, no!” John said, eyebrows rising in incredulity.

“Am I the exception, then?” He moved his left hand to the collar of John’s t-shirt, fingering at the material and occasionally grazing the junction of his neck and shoulder. His eyes followed his own movements while John’s heavy gaze burned a hole into Paul--drilling deep enough to read buried thoughts.

“I think you might be.” He smiled, something warm and beautiful swimming in the chestnut brown of his cavernous eyes. They stood much closer than two mates should, and John wanted to be closer yet.

“You know what I think?” Paul grinned back flirtatiously. He found the alcohol in his system making him bolder with his touches, creating the overwhelming need to be close to his older friend. The hand occupied by the material of his shirt confidently travelled to the back of John’s neck, softly brushing at the auburn hair--each lock feeling like fine silk.

“What?” John asked, his voice almost a whisper and a lump in his throat. But he wore a small smirk, captivated by Paul’s brazenness.

“We need more drinks.” Paul winked and broke away to head towards the bar. John could only momentarily gawk after him as his lean figure slightly staggered up to Ringo. The sight was stupidly adorable--the way Paul would drunkenly misjudge his footing then giggle childishly before trekking onward--and also mildly concerning.

John had seen the effects of mixing amphetamines and alcohol often enough in the clubs he hopped around with his mates. He knew better than to give someone like Paul too much of either one. A stimulant had as much capability to overpower a depressant as vice versa. Frankly, there was no in between, and John didn’t want to witness (or be the cause of) Paul spiralling down either path.

Safely reaching his destination, Paul slapped his hands on the counter. “Gimme another round, Hando.” He wore his grin proudly and the expanse of his pupils nearly engulfed the hazel of his irises.

Ringo ignored the incorrect use of his nickname and sought out the self-proclaimed chaperone of the hyperactive lad. “Why don’t you consult Johnny on that one first, Paul. I think ye’ve had enough, mate.”

Heaven-sent, John interfered before Paul could worsen his slurred state. “Paulie, why don’t we get outta here? It’s rather late.”

“Aww, c’mon, not you too. Wha’ ‘appened to the Johnny that brought me in ‘ere?”

“He’s tired and you’re drunk.”

“‘M not drunk. I feel fine.” He hoped his slurred words and mild swaying didn’t contradict his words.

“How many fingers am I holdin’ up?” He held up three digits before Paul’s hazy vision. Frowning in concentration, the younger boy studied the hand for longer than necessary.

“Stop movin’ ‘em,” Paul mumbled, grabbing John’s wrist to steady the swaying hand. John shared a disappointed look with Ringo before turning back to Paul. It became clear that the upper had done a cunning job at hiding the effects of the alcohol until now.

“I’m not movin’ ‘em, love. And I think you just proved my point.” Pulling a five-pound note from his pocket, John slapped the money on the counter before adding, “Ta for the drinks, Ringo. I think we’re gonna head off now.” He nodded towards the entrance. “It seems the pill’s wearin’ off and the booze is kickin’ in.”

Paul rested his head on the countertop, cradling it with his arms as if shielding himself from blows to the head. Glancing at him, John felt a small smile tug at his lips. He desperately wanted to run his fingers through the dark mass of hair to comfort the boy during his first room-spinning experience.

Smiling, Ringo said, “Catch ye later, John.” Then gesturing to Paul, he added more seriously, “And take care of that one, yeah? ‘E’s good for you.”

John gave a tight-lipped smile because he had no other means of response. _‘Good for you?’_ Maybe his friend meant _‘too_ good for you.’  Sure, Paul would be a good influence for John’s crooked ways...but what about vice versa? John was damaged. A broken boy with broken morals from a broken home. Maybe Paul was the glue that could piece him back together, but was it worth dragging the other boy down with him?

Escaping his self-deprecating thoughts, John placed his hands at Paul’s waist, gently guiding him to a straighter position. “C’mon, ye lightweight.”

Pulling himself straight, Paul giggled and led the way towards the door, feeling confident enough to support himself on his own. John ran to snag their records from the booth then tailed after him, surprisingly proud of himself for not being in a similar state as his friend. It felt good to leave the pub sober for once--made him feel like he’d finally mastered his self-control.

Paul clumsily made his way through a maze of tables and equally sloshed patrons. When he nearly fell face first onto the floor, John intervened for the sake of the lad’s safety. Securely wrapping an arm around Paul’s waist and manually placing his mate’s arm around his shoulders, John steered them safely to the door.

“S’not my fault,” Paul mumbled. “They k-keep movin’ the tables…an’ shit.”

“I know, love.” Shaking his head, John smiled and gripped him tighter.

 

~ * ~

 

Wearing smiles brighter than the streetlamps above, two boys who assumed they had more differences than similarities stumbled down Liverpool streets while whispering into the night--sharing secrets that should have never been secret in the first place.

Amidst the idiotic laughter, Paul stopped in his tracks, subsequently stopping John, as well. Sober enough to realize they were no longer ambling towards his own home, McCartney frowned and asked, “Where you takin’ me, Johnny?”

John’s heart lurched with every fond utterance of his nickname. “‘M gonna take ye to my place so you can sober up before you go home in the morning.”

“Nooo,” Paul groaned, epitomizing the tone of a pouting child. His eyes were heavy-lidded as they settled on John and his eyebrows creased in defiance. The occasional headlight crafted a halo around his head, continuously convincing John the boy was an angel. Drunk and heavenly--a beautiful paradox. “I don’ wanna go home. Me Da’s a right drag, he is. Y’know he won’t even let me wear leathers?” Paul asked, as if it were the most atrocious prospect imaginable. He belatedly realized he was rambling but found no way to prevent himself from doing so.

“It really is a shame, that,” John said, shamelessly flitting his eyes over Paul’s form. “You’d look bloody fab in ‘em.”

“I’d kill fer a jacket an’ some drainies, mate.” Excitement impassioned his words, making them louder than intended. “I mean, look how cool you look, mate,” he said, eyes bright with the want to possess as much personality as John. It was something he’d surely never admit in the light of day and without a sip of liquid courage. So he blamed it solely on the alcohol when he grabbed the lapels of John’s jacket and said, “Can I try yers on?”

The desperation on Paul’s face and in his voice surprised John, causing his bushy eyebrows to shoot dangerously close to his quiff. Shock quickly morphed into amusement when Paul tried to discard his mate of his jacket without officially being granted permission. John dutifully shrugged it off, nonetheless, internally as ecstatic as Paul to see the latter in dark leather. Immediately, the night air bit at his exposed arms, but he was willing to brace himself against it as long as Paul kept smiling that crooked grin.

“What’re _you_ gonna take off for _me,_ then?” John asked, his voice rough and his grin lecherous.

“Ye’ll jus’ haf’ta wait ‘til we get ta yours to find out,” Paul said, returning the look as he put on the jacket John handed him. The older boy only took the drunken implication with a grain of salt.

The two boys were roughly the same size--John’s shoulders being slightly broader than Paul’s. The jacket was a perfect fit, reminding him of the way John held him as they danced--snug and warm. The smell that he should be used to by now inebriated him more than any ounce of alcohol he consumed that night as it wafted through the air around him.

Suddenly, he felt as much like John’s property as the jacket itself. He was the leather customized to fit John to perfection--shielding him from elements harsher than mother nature could ever wish to create. Paul didn’t know what those elements were just yet--having just assumed the role of covering John’s back--but something told him he’d come to discover them in the near future.

But he also felt protected in John’s jacket. Invincible, as if he were wearing the hide of a rhinoceros or yielding a force field. Briefly, he wondered if the older boy always felt this powerful--unscathed by any and everything because the leather on his back licensed unspoken authority.  

After proudly grinning down at the way it hugged his body, Paul looked up and asked, “How do I look?” He punctuated the question with his own Elvis-like snarl and a spread-legged stance that demanded respect. Confidence shone on his face while insecurity lined his words. Inexplicably, he seeked John’s approval, as if this additional article of clothing was the deciding factor on whether they could continue as mates or not.

While Paul daftly posed in the middle of the walk, John leaned against the brick of an adjacent building, smirking as his younger mate put on a mild show. He’d give him all the time in the world if he needed it. “Incredible,” John said, encapsulated by Paul’s apparent ability to pull off any look. Thus far, John’s favorite being the rogue.

Slowly, Paul approached John’s leaning figure--the older boy internally willing his heart to maintain a steady rhythm while externally feigning nonchalance with every step his friend took. “Shaggable?” Paul asked, sultry and smooth, finally stopping when he was toe-to-toe with Lennon.

“Very,” John whispered. His eyes subconsciously locked onto a sinful pair of lips. Keeping his arms crossed over his chest, he strongly resisted the urge to recreate their embrace in the alley and pull Paul towards him until they were flush against each other. Overcoming the spell the young boy put him under, he added, “But teasing is a cruel thing to do to a lad, you know.”

“But ‘m not teasin’,” Paul said, his seductive eyes keeping John pinned to the wall. “Maybe ‘m just makin’ a diversion.” John frowned.

“Wha--” Before he could finish voicing his confusion or register the wicked smirk on Paul’s lips, the younger lad snatched the records John had been carrying for them and was off running down the sidewalk, laughing boisterously. Dislodging his stupefied expression, John finally understood the implications of his sneaky friend and chased after him with a smile.

“You cheeky fucker! Get back ‘ere with me jacket, daft git!” John hollered after him without a trace of  irritation. Paul only laughed in response, hopelessly attempting to pick up his pace.

“It looks better on me, anyroad!” he finally called, greedily gasping for any gust of air hitting his face from the run.

The older boy eventually caught up to the giggling thief, grabbing him around the waist and lifting him into the air to prevent any further escape. He spun them around until Paul was vainly kicking his legs and breathlessly pleading him to stop.

“Jo-ha ha-ohn, stop! ‘M sorry!” he shouted through bouts of laughter.

“How do I know ye won’t try to make another run for it?”

His words accompanying a cackle, Paul managed to shout, “I won’t! Just put me down, asshole!”

Begrudgingly, John relented. Just when Paul thought the attack was over, John held him tight from behind and administered fiendish tickles to his sides. Uncontrollable and carefree snorts escaped the beautiful boy--melodic music to John’s ears.

Chuckling lightly and murmuring into the dark hair of the squirming lad, John said, “What kinda person steals the clothes off another man’s back, anyway?”

“I dunno! T’was a d-daft thing ta do-hoo hoo!” He uselessly gripped at John’s nimble fingers, fighting with all of his weak might to fend off his attacker.

“I’m glad you see the error of yer ways,” John said, finally ceasing his revenge. He continued to hold Paul tightly, feeling the slump in the other’s posture as he calmed down from his laughing fit. When Paul finally sighed out a relieved breath, John pulled him upright and assumed their previous walking positions with Paul’s arm around John’s shoulders and John’s arm around Paul’s waist. “Think yer a master thief cause you helped nick a few records?” he asked, nudging Paul playfully and swiftly swiping the aforementioned loot from his unsuspecting fingers.

“I think ‘m gettin’ pretty close.” He smirked and leaned into John a little more than his sloshed state dictated.

“And I think yer more drunk than you think,” John said, affectionately nuzzling Paul’s temple and making the younger boy laugh loudly into the crisp night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought a flirty, drunk Paul would be fun to add. And in no way will Paul be considered the 'girl' in this fic. I hope it isn't coming across that way. At the very least, I want them to be equals. But I'm working out all of the kinks, and that dynamic of their relationship will eventually make itself more present.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments. Again, so very helpful! If you have suggestions of a scene to include or have a request of any sort, let me know, and I can see about working it in. No promises, but I'll definitely take a look! Thanks so much for reading. I hope it's not getting worse as we go along!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a few days. I've been pretty busy with a summer class, so I haven't been able to write. This chapter was already written but I haven't finished the next one, so I don't know when that one will be ready. 
> 
> I was also unsure whether I should end their date this way, but I think it helps give me inspiration for the next chapter. I hope you enjoy, and I'll try to have an update ASAP!

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, ye got a posh fuckin’ ‘ouse!” Paul remarked loudly after seeing the immaculate state of Mendips. They merely stood in the back garden--John finding it simpler to sneak Paul in that way--but Paul could clearly see the high-brow manner with which the home was kept.

“Shh, Macca!” John hissed with an amused chuckle, firmly covering Paul’s mouth with his hand. “Ye try’na book a cell tonight for public intoxication? A face like yours would look much better in my bed than in a jail cell, love.”

Drunkenly snickering into the hand muzzling his mouth, Paul nodded his acquiescence. John removed his hand and grabbed Paul’s bicep as he led them to the back door. Before he opened the door, he turned to his friend with an abrupt seriousness.

“Look, not a fuckin’ peep, yeah? I got me aunt sleepin’ upstairs and she’ll cripple both of us if we’re caught.”

As if everything became tenfold more humorous, Paul giggled but nodded again. John frowned, unconvinced by the boy’s promise.

“I mean it, love. Not a word ‘til we’re in my room.”

 _“Christ, yes!_ ‘M drunk, not fuckin’ stupid, John,” Paul said, inexplicably offended by the parental-like scolding.

“Right…. Sorry.” Feeling stupid for being too excessive, he flashed a tight smile before finally allowing them entrance into the home.

Walking into the cave of a ferocious animal in hibernation, the two boys maneuvered their way around creaky floorboards and sneaky furniture until they made it safely to the landing outside of John’s door. Save for a few clumsy slip-ups from Paul, they navigated around the house with more stealth than they had while nicking records. Though, if it weren’t for John catching him, Paul certainly would’ve foiled their furtive endeavors with a near tumble down the stairs.

Once they enclosed themselves within the solitude of the room, John breathed a sigh of relief while Paul drunkenly snickered to himself. As if suddenly punched into sobriety, Paul’s smile faded and his eyes attentively scanned the appearance of John’s bedroom. Beautiful chaos--thoughtful carelessness--displayed itself all around. Everything contradicted the next--the messy array of papers on his desk a sharp contrast to the elegance with which an acoustic stood neatly in the corner of the room; the erratic state of a wardrobe spewing clothes like vomit a clear juxtaposition to the posters adorned with posing musicians methodically lining the walls of the room.

All in one glance, Paul discovered more similarities and differences between he and John.The room itself was the living antithesis of Paul’s own which was poised for visitation at any given time; but the subtle appearances of music in John’s room overshadowed any disarray. To hear about the older boy’s mutual love of music in the bar was one thing, but to visually see it before him (and possibly touch it) was an entirely different experience altogether.

“I hope yer not exptectin’ me to apologize for the mess, cause I wouldn’t even if you wanted me to,” John said, haphazardly tossing the records they’d nicked onto his desk. Noticing his visitor’s gaping, John immediately felt like a slob, not that it ever bothered him before. But he _was_ actually trying to woo this specific visitor, after all. For some reason, however, instead of begging the room’s pardon like a normal person, he handled things the Lennon way and said the exact opposite of what he’d intended.

_I’d clean it in a heartbeat if you asked._

“No, s’fine,” Paul said, moving to stand more fully in the room. He felt out of place; this was John’s sanctuary, even more of his domain than the grimey loo at school. As he swayed slightly on his feet from his faulty equilibrium, John flitted about the room, kicking off his boots and making the bed more presentable. Paul watched on stupidly, unsure of what to do with himself.

After noticing his friend standing in the middle of the room like a frightened child, John finally said, “Nothing to be afraid of in here, Macca. Just get yer kit off so we can get some kip.” He spoke quietly in the dark of the room, his voice soft and smooth--a breeze rustling through trees.

Wordlessly, Paul got to his task. Using the dresser in the room to maintain stability, Paul attempted to kick off his shoes by solely using his feet but stumbled with every effort. Quietly laughing at the silent struggle, John came over to assist the younger boy. He first took his own leather jacket off of his friend before solving the initial problem.

He knelt before Paul, the latter instinctively grasping John’s right shoulder for additional support, and gently removed his shoes. The care with which John handled him made Paul feel more off-balanced than he physically was.

Before John’s hands moved on their own volition, he considerately asked, “Sleepin’ with yer trousers on?” Paul shook his head, and John asked him to sit on the bed in turn. A sensual atmosphere stalked behind Paul as he made his way to the bed. The latter dipped with his weight while the former left him weightless.

As Paul expectantly sat on the edge of the bed, John slowly approached him--something sexy yet equally intimate about his demeanor. The light from a streetlamp outside streamed into the room through the window, casting his domineering shadow on the floor but eliciting a gentle glow across his features. The sight of John towering above him with conflicting lust and softness mesmerized Paul. Coincidentally, it was John’s own image of Paul perching on his bed with wide eyes and parted lips that constituted such a response from John.

Lightly, John pushed on Paul’s chest, maintaining eye contact until his friend was forced to support himself on his elbows, following those fingers with all of the willingness in the world. Hesitantly neglecting their eye-lock, John transferred his gaze to Paul’s belt and zip. Paul swallowed the surge of nerves constricting his throat when graceful fingers trailed behind John’s line of sight.

The clinking metal of his belt buckle and the prolonged descent of his zipper were both sounds Paul never knew could be so arousing. His heart pounded in his chest from this simple yet erotic act, and he surreptitiously bit his lip to keep the organ from leaping straight out of his mouth. Knowing what the sight of the boy on his bed would do to him should he chance a peek, John trained his eyes on his hands as they guided Paul’s trousers down his mile-long legs.

John knew better than to try to dominate Paul or assert some sort of aggressive masculinity. He saw Paul as nothing less than an equal; in fact, Paul was proving more dominant mentally and emotionally. John's emotions led him around on a leash, thus leaving his mind defenseless to any attacks. Paul seemed considerably more level-headed than other blokes John knew; and in those hookups, John had no problems with taking charge. But Paul wasn't just a hookup, and John wasn't so keen on being the one in control.

Above all, John knew that if he truly wanted to get Paul into bed, he wouldn’t put this much time and consideration in it. Had sex been the end goal, their trousers would have been off and they’d be under the sheets already. But John had an overwhelming urge to take care of Paul--his silent plea to have Paul do the same for him.

Inch by inch, dark hair revealed itself on Paul’s legs. The fact that the young boy was more masculine than his face allowed others to believe ignited a spark in John’s stomach. Once John completely rid him of his pants, Paul’s breath silently hitched at the cool air caressing his skin. Left only in his Y-fronts, he mentally collected himself as much as a pissed lad could and crawled to the side of the bed adjacent to the wall. While John folded his pants over the back of a chair, Paul regarded him from beneath the warmth of the covers.

More effortlessly and coordinated than his friend, John stripped himself to a similar state but chose to also remove his shirt. Paul’s stomach coiled with heat at every bulge of the older boy’s shoulder blades as he undressed before his eyes. The thought was dirty, but Paul washed his guilt away with the alcohol in his system.

Finally, John collapsed beside him on the tiny bed with a sigh. They were nearly pressed together, drawn in by the other’s heat. This close, they saw previously unnoticed details on one another’s face--freckles sprinkled along the bridge of a nose and across the mounds of cheeks, kaleidoscopic colors mixing and melding on the canvas of irises. Beery breaths mingled across the shared pillow, allowing a second attempt at intoxication as they faced one another.

John invaded the thick atmosphere with a whispered, “I felt ye starin’ at me. Care to tell me what that was about?” It was mainly in jest--something to fill the silence blanketing them more than the bed covers themselves. Paul shrugged as much as he could in his position.

“Sometimes yer something worth watchin’,” he replied calmly. His clothes must have acted as some sort of filter, and now that he’d stripped himself of them, his words flowed freely from his mouth. Not even the dark cloak of night could hide his innermost thoughts.

Gathering the meaning of Paul’s words as they fell on the sheet between them, John studied Paul skeptically. The insecurities buried within him screamed at him, stuffing his brain with red flags as if it was a pillow and warning him of deftly masked insincerity. The beers from earlier were working Paul like a marionette, and nothing he said should be taken strictly at face value.

But when Paul’s unguarded expression contradicted his own cynical thoughts, John remained silenced by uncertainty.

While his friend internally battled with himself, Paul worked up the courage to do something that had piqued his curiosity in the alley. Slowly moving forward across the hair’s breadth distance of the pillow, Paul allowed John the chance to resist his advancement should he so desire. But when the older boy’s expression evinced reciprocation, Paul boldly ventured forward until their noses touched. Light-headed from propinquity, his eyes fluttered closed and his breath trapped itself within his lungs as he savored the feeling. The knowledge that his friend’s thin lips were only a touch away was an ever-present thought in his mind.

John’s eyes mimicked Paul’s on sheer instinct. The timid touch was minuscule compared to how far John was known to go with a lad. But the intimacy of it was more than he’d ever had during an actual shag.

John’s aquiline nose softly nuzzled Paul’s significantly smaller one, evoking a smile from the dark-haired boy. John sensed rather than saw his mate’s smile and brought his hand up to cup his cheek, absorbing its heat and attempting to capture that smile resting just on its surface. It was a daft thought to wish to catch a smile; but the possibility of trapping Paul’s within his palm and constantly having it etched on his life line comforted John.

He stroked the smooth skin with his thumb, tracing and retracing a short path. Beneath the sheets, their legs tangled slightly enough to excuse it as a search for warmth should one of them regret the sensual touches.

John quickly came to the realization that regret was the last thing he felt. Closing the minute gap between lips and skin, he leaned in enough to kiss the corner of Paul’s mouth. The latter instinctively parted, drawing a shuddery breath and basking in the warmth of a barely-there peck. When he received no protest from the kiss, John delivered another, this time to Paul’s chin. Purposefully avoiding his friend’s lips, the older boy continued to pepper the skin all around them with butterfly kisses. What disguised itself as teasing was actually an attempt to prompt Paul to make the first move and seal an official kiss.

Forcing Paul into something he didn’t want was the last thing John wanted to do.

Mild tremors racked Paul’s body, tap dancing along his nerve endings until the hairs on his body stood to attention. Among other things rising, a familiar yet entirely new warmth pooled in his lower abdomen. With little time to chase skirt thanks to a nosy brother and new city, this was one of the most sexual things he had yet to experience. Or maybe it just felt that way because it was with a lad. Either way, the touch was so little--so little but so much.

Overwhelmed by the sensation of John’s lips caressing his skin yet unsatisfied with the whisper of kisses, Paul chased after the heat in his gut and used it to make his own move. Resting his right hand on the soft skin of John’s neck, he tilted his head to catch John’s lips just as they went to plant another fleeting kiss on the corner of Paul’s own.

The kiss was closed and tentative--testing the waters before even daring to dive in. If Paul needed to sort his feelings (and the feeling of John) before committing entirely, then the older boy would patiently await his decision. At least it allotted him time to discover his own intentions. Even with his vast sexual experience, John had never been forced to deal with affection accompanying the lust. Apparently, both _he and Paul_ were scouting uncharted territories.

When their lips reluctantly parted--both sets desperately clinging to the foreign skin--they caught breaths that should have never been snatched in the first place. After a beat of recuperation, John thirsted after a taste for more. Securing his hand at the bolt of Paul’s jaw, he locked their lips once again, this time physically coercing Paul into parting those plump temptations.

As John mouthed at his full lower lip, Paul couldn’t deny either of them what they wanted. Widening his jaw and curling his fingers around John’s neck, he indulged both of them in a kiss compacted with days’ worth of tightly coiled sexual tension. The catharsis camouflaged itself as faint moans and smacking lips, the sounds drifting through the air like sweet music. Their hearts were wild beasts pounding against their rib cages, but they kissed leisurely, afraid to let on to the beating they suffered just within their chests. They nibbled and pressed their lips together until the skin swelled and tinted cherry red. The sound was sinful and the touch was dizzying; opening and closing, their mouths never once lost contact. But before John could fulfill his desire to involve his tongue, Paul pulled away, the necessity of oxygen making itself known.

They rested their foreheads together, both now rosy-cheeked and breathing rapidly. Paul’s hand remained on John’s neck while John’s own moved up to card through his friend’s thick, raven hair.

With a shaky whisper, Paul finally broke their silence. “The room’s spinnin’.”

John lightly chuckled at the confession and replied in a thick voice, “Yeah, I know….”

Shaking his head, and subsequently John’s, Paul frowned and clarified, “No, no. I mean--the room…it’s really spinnin’. I…I don’t feel good….”

With his eyes clenched shut, Paul willed away the sudden bout of nausea. Considering he’d just kissed John, it was rather bad timing on his part. But the kiss had been nothing short of euphoric, so he knew it wasn’t the cause of his churning stomach. The most probable culprit was the abundance of beer in his belly.

John opened his eyes and pulled back to study Paul. “Oh…are you gonna be sick?” he asked, noticing the discomfort on the younger boy’s face.

John self-consciously wondered if he contributed to the sick feeling. Paul seemed like a very willing participant at the time, however--moaning with every tug of his lips. But maybe the realization that he was making out with a bloke dawned on him while John was too busy plotting his next move.

 _What a confidence boost,_ John thought cynically.

“No…. Yes…. I don’t know…,” Paul groaned, rolling onto his back and clutching his stomach.

“Shh, it’s okay,” John whispered, comfortingly brushing Paul’s fringe away from his forehead. He then pulled the covers back and rose from the bed. “Can you budge over to this side?” he asked softly, referring to his own previous spot at the opposite side of the bed. As Paul began shuffling to the side farthest from the wall, John grabbed the waste basket near his desk and placed it on the floor just below Paul.

“You can use that if you feel yer gonna be sick,” he said. Paul nodded, his head turned to the side on the pillow as he continued to clutch his unruly stomach.

As if maneuvering his way around a minefield, John gently crawled over Paul’s agonized form and into the space it previously occupied. Even though John considerately tried to make his movements minimal, every shake of the bed sent a wrecking ball swinging through Paul’s gut. Once his friend settled himself, Paul turned onto his side, thankful for the trash can’s convenient placement.

Suddenly, a large yet gentle hand came to rest on his stomach and a warm body spooned behind him. John’s body slotted perfectly with Paul’s own, puzzle pieces destined to connect. The hand on his stomach rubbed soothing circles on top of the t-shirt covering him while thin lips pressed feather-light kisses to the back of his neck. Paul sighed in bliss, undergoing chill bumps every time John occasionally nuzzled the fine hairs just above his nape. John showed a softness wholly unexpected of someone with his character, so Paul decided to comment on it in his baffled state.

“Yer bein’ nice to me,” he weakly mumbled, John’s touches having abated his pain and begun to tranquilize him instead.

John quietly laughed. “Yeah, I am. Why’re you so surprised?” Before bestowing another kiss, he spoke the words into Paul’s skin, the sound muffled--rain on carpet.

“Cause John’s not nice.” After a small pause, he added, “John’s bad.” Vaguely, a more conscious part of Paul’s brain alerted him that he sounded like a senseless child; but as his eyes grew heavier and his breathing steadier, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Nah, ‘e’s not. John’s very nice,” he whispered matter-of-factly with a small smile. “Especially to Paulie.” Hearing the foreign fondness in his own voice, John blamed his daft affections on the night. The shadows stealthily pulled every sweet word John preserved for this boy straight from his mouth, molding them into something pure and special that the daylight could never touch. As long as those words stayed within the seclusion of his bedroom, John couldn’t care less what they made him.

Having barely heard John’s response and too overcome with exhaustion to give one of his own, Paul simply hummed in acknowledgement. John snuggled closer, pressing his nose into the soft fabric of his mate’s t-shirt and deeply inhaling the scent. The boyish smell was enough to lull his brain into a pleasurably comatose state.

With darkness awaiting beneath closed lids, the boys fell asleep within the comfort of one another’s arms in minutes flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wee bit of fluff to end with. Next will be the dreaded 'Morning After'....
> 
> Thanks for reading! I've gotten a lot of support, and I absolutely love all of your comments! They keep me motivated and encouraged to keep going! <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Jeebus, this has certainly been long overdue. So, I'd like to start by immediately apologizing for that. I got so caught up with other boring stuff that I couldn't find time to write, and even when I could, there wasn't much inspiration.
> 
> But it's all here now! Every shitty bit of it XD I was really concerned about this chapter because I didn't know how I felt about the dialogue and all of the stuff in the beginning. But as I finished it up last night, I was like eh, not too shabby. So, overall: mixed reviews (ignoring the fact I'm the only one who's reviewed it).
> 
> I'm not sure what else to say about this chapter that wouldn't be self-deprecating other than I hope you enjoy! XD I've been listening to all comments and trying to improve. Thanks for reading <3

The daybreak of a Saturday was brutal and unrelenting. The sun shone through the crack in the curtains and revealed dancing dust particles typically unseen in artificial lighting.

Warmer than the heat pervading the room was the chest pressed to Paul’s face and the arm slung around his waist. Fuzzy-headed, he couldn’t tell where his own limbs lied, but he was almost certain one arm was curled around a foreign waist; he was pleasantly comfortable. The feeling wasn’t entirely abnormal considering Mike frequently bunked with Paul when his nightmares became too unbearable or the shadows ran rampant in his room. But the putrid taste in his mouth and the incessant pounding in his skull sent a flash-flood of memories rushing through his brain.

The alcohol. The dancing. The laughing. The kissing….

In theory, it all sounded fine and well--a gay ol’ time--but it was also so unlike Paul that the memory terrified him. The implication grabbed him like a vice by the back of the neck, shoving his face into the haze of last night and forcing him to figure out what it all meant.

Groaning from his foggy recollection and the harsh sunlight maximizing his first hangover, Paul stuffed his face further into a junction of skin and sheets to vainly hide himself away. The hold around his waist tightened fractionally, and a breathy laugh spilled from somewhere above him.

“Mornin’ to you, too,” came John’s gruff, sleep-infused voice. The warm sunlight pooling on his blanket-clad form made his bones feel pleasantly heavy, and Paul’s body, pliant in his arms, summoned a smile to John’s lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he actually welcomed the presence of a foreign body in his bed. Most were hardly granted permission to stay long enough for a sunrise. Just as he leaned in to nuzzle the bed-head of dark hair, Paul snapped his head up, nearly knocking John in the nose.

“What time s’it?” His own voice was low and his words strung together as if alcohol still coated his vocal chords. The previous realization that he wasn't in his own bed ran a second lap around his mind with the agility of a track star, insistent on getting Paul out of that bed and out of that house.

“Too early for a bloody nose,” John mumbled but reached over Paul for his glasses and the clock on the nightstand. Slipping the thick-rimmed specs onto his face, he read, “Little over half-ten.”

Curiosity momentarily seized Paul. The black glasses framing John’s eyes were an interesting addition to his early-morning look. While various parts of his hair disobeyed the laws of gravity and the smooth plane of his back became exposed from where he sat up, the glasses stood out the most. The lad looked smart, almost convincing Paul he wrote poetry, painted landscapes, and could recite any piece of literature--all without having said a single word. Needless to say, Paul wouldn't mind if he wore them around him more often.

But that would entail continuing to see John, something of which Paul wasn't so sure. Beer tasted good when it was the only thing to drink; a high felt amazing when it surfed his veins and fended off fatigue; and John's kisses felt electric when he was under the influence of both. But within the time span of a sunrise, Paul was hungover, crashed from the high, and remiss of any touch from John. He was uncertain how the latter would feel in the wake of sobriety.

No sooner had that thought come than the hour struck him harder than it had the clock. Half past ten and he was still in John’s bed, having neither returned home nor called. Responsibility struck him harder yet, an invisible hand print staining his cheek red--a scarlet mark of foolishness.

Before he could think twice, he jumped to his feet, swaying where he stood as his skull pressurized and cast a myriad of stars over his vision. The haze was enough to halt his panic until he stabilized himself and set to his quick departure once again. As Paul staggered about the room to dress himself, John watched on from the bed, bemused.

“Where you goin’?” he asked, eerily sounding like the hurt child he was the first time someone stepped out of his life. Paul spared him a glance whilst he fumbled into his jeans, the legs seeming to purposefully constrict to further slow his haste. John recognized the hurried movements and the reluctant eye contact; all familiarities he never hoped to see from Paul. That angel was off in flight.

But what had he expected? For Paul to clamor into his arms and they’d ease into the morning together, making breakfast and spending the day in Mendips?

It was humiliating to think that…yes, he _had_ hoped for that.

Running his fingers through his hair to tame the tangles, Paul scanned the room for his shoes. He spotted them beside the dresser and sat on the edge of the bed to push them onto his feet. Pointedly ignoring John’s uncharacteristically innocent and curious look, Paul fumbled about with his shoes, trying to forget how carefully John had removed them the night before. Something unfamiliar stirred within his gut--butterflies or white rapids or tumultuous avalanches or some other fast-paced phenomenon--that supplied the foolhardy consideration of staying here with John. His throbbing headache made him more ornery and short with John than he probably deserved; with this in mind, he tried to keep a lid on the boiling pot of his frustration.

Because none of it was John’s fault. In the older boy’s eyes, he was protecting Paul’s hide by keeping him away from a payphone or the doorstep of Forthlin Road last night. If his slurred words weren’t enough of an indication of how Paul’s night was going, his father’s experienced nose could smell any drop of alcohol wafting down a phone line. The fact that he could only blame himself--a most willing participant in the night’s antics--was more unbearable than the physical aftermath of his drinking.

Then again, maybe he was being too much of a devil’s advocate by defending John’s behavior. After all, it wasn’t Paul’s want to go out in the first place. What was supposed to be a repayment method turned into a night of pressuring situations. But, beneath all of that, he couldn’t deny the fact that parts of his night were more enjoyable than he ever imagined they’d be. Tottering between both sides of the argument was an obnoxious motion, and Paul knew he needed to find his footing before he either fell flat on his arse or head over heels.

All of the how-come’s and the finger-pointing was starting to do him in. Finding the blame game to be too tiring and difficult, Paul decided to save it for a time when he wasn’t feeling so shitty.

“I gotta get home,” Paul finally answered, no trace of disappointment or remorse in his tone.  He spoke the words to the floor and watched them form puddles of detachment at his feet. The imminent lecture from his father already rang in his ears, words like ‘irresponsible’ and ‘unreliable’ dousing the conversation. His own clairvoyance made him want to crawl back beneath the covers and sleep away responsibility for a little while longer.

John supported himself with his palms splayed flat on the mattress behind him, and he playfully nudged Paul's thigh with a blanket-covered foot. “When will I get to see you again?” he asked.

Paul shrugged. The inevitable trekked to the forefront, and Paul silently fought to deflate any of John’s expectations. “Dunno. School, I reckon.” He scratched the side of his nose and rose to his feet, his movements as short as his patience. The memory of John nuzzling his nose burned it more than the nick of his fingernail. It was a thought he had to shake from his head if he ever wanted to actually make it out the door.

John suddenly groaned whilst throwing the covers off of him and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He roughly scrubbed his face with his hands, whisking away the sleep nestled in his pores and also displaying his annoyance with Paul’s answer.

“Come on, Paul, don’t do this to me.” His hands muffled the words, but John’s evident frustration seized Paul’s attention so much that he couldn’t ignore them even if he’d wanted to.

Still, their context was unclear to him. Turning to John’s slouched form with a frown, he asked, “What am I doin’?” John removed the hands covering his face and gestured towards Paul with one.

“Don’t fuckin’ crawl back into that godawful shell you’ve built for yerself. It’s not a good look for ye, babe. We’ve not long woken up, and ‘m already missin’ the Paul from last night.”

Paul scoffed. He could feel the lid of that pot jostling unsteadily with every complaint from John’s mouth. “And what about the _John_ from last night, eh? Where’s he gone to?”

Even in his sober state, Paul couldn’t deny the infatuation he had for the tender-hearted Lennon he met last night. And John blatantly confessed how he adored a more carefree and adventurous Paul. But here they were, constructing brick walls with alarming familiarity right before one another’s eyes. Spite and cynicism crawled to the tips of their tongues, ready to spit venom at any hint of a threat.

“Maybe if ye got off yer high fuckin’ horse, you could see ‘im.” John wished he could stop talking--wished he could forge a metal plate across his mouth and give Paul sole possession of the key. But his defensiveness halted any sensibility.

People weren’t walking out of his life, he was pushing them away.

Because pushing them away was so much easier to deal with than realizing they didn’t want to stay in the first place. He was just saving everyone some time, honestly.

“Well, I suggest gettin’ a ladder, mate, cause I’m certainly not stoopin’ down to your level,” Paul shot back. Anxiousness festered in his gut. That always happened to him during confrontations and made him feel like he was watching it all occur from the outside. Stepping back into himself, he breathed a sigh and tore his eyes away from John’s narrowed ones. “John, look, I think last night was a mistake…,” he said, handling himself like an adult--something of which he felt his father would be proud. That was something hard to accomplish as of late.

John contradicted his seniority with petulant resistance. “Oh, no no no,” he began, “that’s my line, mate.” Affecting a chirpy, businesslike tone, he added, “ _Welp, you were a good fuck, mate, but we can’t be doin’ that again, no siree._ No, Paul, I’m not gonna let you do that.” He finally reverted back to his fierce tone, a mild warning in his words.

Paul rolled his eyes, the melodramatics too much for him in his condition. “Considering we didn’t fuck, I s’pose you’ve nothing to worry about. ‘Sides, last time I checked, you don’t get to tell me what I’m _gonna_ and _not gonna_ do.”

“You weren’t so opposed to it last night, though, were you, love?” John sneered, feeling as though he’d caught Paul in a trap of sorts. With his glasses still on, he could perfectly see the small twitch of Paul’s jaw muscle. He mentally shook away the distracting thought that some hours ago he had steadied that very same jaw in the middle of their kiss.

And apparently, that kiss was the last thing on Paul’s mind at the moment.

“I’d about guess I was up for anything after havin’ one of yer pills shoved down me bloody throat.” _Had_ it been _shoved,_ though? Events from last night flicked across the screen of Paul’s mind like clips from an old silent film. Though everything was black and white, it was still all too crisp--the fuzzy silhouette of Paul opening his mouth with little thought and swallowing what John placed on his tongue. But blaming John for his pill use was the easiest escape from responsibility.

“Now, now, don’t go feedin’ the hand that bites you n’ all that,” John said, clacking his front teeth together in a playful nibble at the air. Before Paul could draw attention to the misuse of the cliche, John barreled forward. “And I clearly recall that pretty mouth of yours openin’ up for a taste on its own will. No wrench needed here to pry that gob open.”

No, the only tools John needed last night were a lot of persuasion and a little bit of luck.

He cleverly realized this futile bickering was keeping Paul within his grasp for just a little while longer. The other lad still hovered a few paces from the door, his crossed arms encapsulating his pride and making him look dead sexier than any irate, hung-over teen should have looked this early. Early morning stubble, tousled hair, and sleepy eyes oddly suited Paul; John was torn between the urge to shove Paul against the wall to see just how much more disheveled he could get him looking, and tugging him back into bed where John could have the selfish privilege of wasting the day away with him.

Paul scoffed and shook his head, simultaneously self-confident and disappointed that he was right about John. How he ever reserved an ounce of fondness for this lad was beyond him. “I knew you were just like yer lot,” he mumbled as he made for the door, already preparing himself for what could lie on the other side of a similar door at 20 Forthlin Road. Whatever that may be, at the moment, it seemed more favorable than sticking around a lad who buried the best parts of himself beneath blankets of impudence when daytime rolled around.

Before Paul could reach the door, however, John jumped to his feet and blocked the exit. Dressed only in his y-fronts, his pale thighs and practically hairless chest were shamelessly on show. There were obviously more important matters at hand than modesty.

“I told you, I’m not like my lot. Thought I fuckin’ proved that last night,” John said, frowning, determination usurping the Lennon cheek. His auburn hair rebelliously stuck out in every which direction, a fair representation of the disarray that was John’s life. The sight would have been comical (and mildly adorable) if Paul wasn’t so fucking done with him at the moment.

“Proving it won’t stand for shit if you don’t know how to keep it up when the sun’s out.” Paul could feel his face molding to portray his disdain but didn’t know how to stop it--didn’t know how to get John to let him leave without a fuss. Paul was an amicable person, cooperative and compromising; but John seemed to know how to push all the wrong buttons at all the wrong times.

He didn’t like how close they were standing, either. He could think clearer when John was seated on the bed, a tolerable distance away. But now, the older boy had himself wedged into the minimal gap between Paul and the door, just a step between them.

And now, he _really_ wanted to leave.

His breath felt stolen, and his lungs squirmed in his chest, the outward claustrophobia finding its way inside him.

“Well, I’m fuckin’ tryin’, ain’t I?” John demanded, desperately searching the tired hazel eyes in front of him for _something._ “You say we didn’t fuck, but you won’t bloody look at me this morning, like I stole yer precious virginity last night.”

Paul prickled at that last comment but kept his face unrevealing. “Because I have to bloody well leave, and yer bein’ a prick about it. I was just tryin’ to do the decent thing by not leadin’ you on.” And if John couldn’t realize that Paul was trying to stop something that was already becoming too destructive, then that was a shortcoming he could deal with on his own time. Paul had neither the time nor the energy to do the thinking for the both of them.

“Well, thanks for that heroic favor, mate. Very chivalrous of you,” John sarcastically sneered. “You wanna go? Fine. Fuckin’ go.” He moved away from the door, motioning to it with an elaborate sweep of his hand. “No one’s stoppin’ you anymore.” He rolled his eyes in annoyance and flopped back onto his bed, vainly fighting off the inner demon that had him chasing and fawning over this lad. It could go back to hell and take Paul with it for all he cared.

He had the dramatic thought to grab his harmonica out of his bedside drawer and play a sulky twelve-bar blues. Maybe Paul would feel contrite enough to stay (a hopeless thought), or maybe John would draw a laugh out of those tightly sealed lips at the very least. But he wasn’t gonna be torn up over some lad who thought he was too good for the world, so John unthinkingly grabbed his sketchbook sat on his nightstand. It was the closest distraction his hands could find.

Taken aback at the doorway, Paul stared at John as he brusquely flipped through pages of some sort of notebook, nearly ripping them out as he did so. With John sitting on his bed, so withdrawn, Paul felt like a ripped out page--lying discarded and crinkled on the floor, all jagged edges and folded corners. Now was his chance to go, to escape. Why, then, when John finally relented his stance and removed Paul’s chains, was he struck immobile?

An odd case of Stockholm syndrome, Paul couldn’t see himself leaving until he figured out where the fight in the both of them had gone. He didn’t like the arguments and animosity that always seemed to lurk just beneath the brim of their interactions--something powerful undoubtedly pushed them apart because it knew the cataclysm of them being together. But was it the danger that they’d never want to part, or the danger that they’d ruin one another when they did? One minute, John was tearing into him, desperate for him to stay, and the next, he had resigned to his bed, refusing to even spare Paul a look. Paul didn’t realize how much he wanted John’s eyes on him until they were no longer there.

The glasses perched on John’s nose magnified the length of his lashes--a feature Paul had failed to notice before--almost resting against his cheeks as he gracefully moved a pencil across the page. Honing in on the hands making the movements, Paul noticed just how beautiful they were. Strong veins protruded to the top of his hand, and surprisingly clean and neatly trimmed nails topped off his fingers.

As if feeling eyes on him, John attempted to surreptitiously raise his own to Paul, but the latter noticed, anyway. Sighing through his nose in obvious frustration, John’s head soon followed his eyes, bluntly facing Paul’s stupefied expression. Rather than saying anything, however, Lennon pointedly raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes, asking why Paul was still here in silent irritation.

Paul swallowed down the lump that had secretly crept into his throat. He then cleared it entirely and gave a short nod, hoping to pretend he hadn’t been gawking at John like an idiot. “Right,” he said for lack of any final departing words. Pulling the nerve from somewhere deep within himself--somewhere vestigial where he didn’t even know courage could be kept--he opened the door and left at last.

John had noticed the hesitation in Paul, but he, too, could play the game of indifference. If Paul was going to move his pawn out the door, then John was going to keep his happily planted on its ass. Maybe Paul just enjoyed having John wrapped around his finger, tugging at John’s leash with every step he took. It sounded like an easy enough excuse, but John was fairly good at reading people, and Paul didn’t seem like the manipulative type. That only meant that John had placed the collar around himself and had thrust the leash into Paul’s hand like the masochist he was.

Belatedly, John realized he was staring unblinkingly at the space Paul had just occupied. The vexation had evaporated, leaving only a hollowed feeling where angry waves previously consumed him. His face had fallen and so had his fight, everything left quiet and unmoving after the final click of his bedroom door. Blinking slowly, he finally tore his eyes away and found them tracking over to his bedroom window. A premonition that the rest of his day would be equally as horrible made itself comfortable in the bottommost crook of his empty shell of a skull.

When he saw the same sight he woke up to--mussed up raven hair--walking away from Mendips, John realized he’d either need a few uppers or hours’ worth of sleep to get him through the rest of the day.

 

~ * ~

 

A few cleansing breaths and religious gestures were in order before Paul could even _think_ about turning the door handle to his home. Either a fiery wrath or an eery silence was bound to be on the other side of the door; there was no in between. Frankly, Paul didn’t know whether is was better to live in dreadful anticipation or to face confrontation head on.

But there was only one way to find out.

Cautiously turning the knob like an intruder, Paul whispered one last plea of mercy, hoping it would drift through the mail slot and into his father’s ears.

He eased open the door and heard little sign of life. It was a Saturday morning, so his father would have the day off, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t popped in the shops downtown. And if that were the case, Mike would be with him, because he had no one else to watch him. Because Paul was a selfish and mindless bastard of a brother who convinced himself his eight-year-old brother was responsible enough to manage himself for an unspecified number of hours. But a few hours turned into an entire drunken night, and Paul didn’t have an umbrella big enough for the shit storm about to greet him.

As he closed the door, he turned the knob so it wouldn’t click when it closed. Honestly, there was no need to be so secretive about his entrance. It wasn’t like he could sneak up to his room and pretend he had been there all night. But, as all teenagers knew, the secrecy prolonged the inevitable.

And the inevitable calmly sat at the McCartney kitchen table, newspaper in hand and teacup filled to the brim. Besides the fact that his father had yet to acknowledge his stock-still presence in the doorway, everything _seemed_ normal. But he knew it was matter of time (whether seconds or minutes, he was unsure; Jim always liked to keep him squirming as a part of the punishment) before a self-righteous scolding beat him harder than his father’s belt had when he was a chap.

After measuredly and crisply folding the morning paper back together, Jim cleared his throat and looked at his son, silently gesturing with his hand for Paul to sit in the chair across from him. Paul bit his lip and took the brief walk of shame to the table. He could already tell from his father’s calculated mannerisms that this was going to be one of the longer ‘talking-to’s.’

He assessed Paul’s appearance for longer than necessary before finally breaking the silence buzzing throughout the kitchen. “What’s that over there, Paul?” he asked, casual and low, nodding towards the wall behind his son.

Paul turned to look with a slight frown. Besides the doorway through which he entered and one end of their counter top, the phone on the wall was the only other thing in that general area. “The phone?” He still didn’t see the connection himself.

“Forget how to use one, then, did you?” Jim asked, quirking an eyebrow in a signature McCartney fashion. It was no secret those shapely brows ran in the genes.

 _Hardee har har, very clever,_ Paul thought, internally rolling his eyes. Of course it was something he’d never do or say to his old man. A hand would be across his face before he could even guess why it hit him.

Instead, he spewed the apologies and explanations like an assembly line, his brain the packager and his tongue the speedy belt.

“Da’, I never meant to stay out so late. You know I’d never _ever_ leave Mike here alone if I thought I’d be out all night.”

“Well, that’s just the thing, son. You never breathed a word to me about going out last night. I come home from work and your brother is freezing to death because he took too long in the bath and the water got cold. But he was still worried sick about you despite it all.”

That news struck him like a blow to the chest.

The image Paul painted inside his head made his heart drop to his stomach, where it was quickly swallowed whole. To think that Mike, his kid brother, had sat, body shivering and teeth clattering, in a cold bathtub while Paul was out nicking and drinking made Paul’s blood run colder than a frigid bath ever could. Paul, galavanting about when Mike, a fucking _kid,_ was stranded at home and too panicked to even think to drain the tub.

“I...I didn’t think--”

“That’s right, you _didn’t,”_ Jim interrupted, crossing his hands on the table and leaning in to intently stare at his disquieted son. “Didn’t even consider the danger of leaving an eight-year-old home alone. I’m countin’ on you, Paul, and I can’t have you abandoning Michael for a night out--something I never even gave you permission for in the first place.”

At those words, Paul’s eyes snapped up from their relentless stare at the chipped corner of the table.

 _Abandoning?_ _Abandoning_ his brother?! If there was any McCartney that strutted about as the epitome of abandonment, it would be the one standing on the soapbox and preaching this lecture. But Paul guessed shipping your kids away to a foreign city for a year wasn’t considered abandonment; passing them onto people who suited the title stranger better than cousin wasn’t abandonment. Oh no, no, they daren’t throw those cards on the table--that conversation was all hush hush and swept under the dusty rug.

Paul was silently fuming, biting at his tongue before it could break free and bite at his father with accusations of hypocrisy. As much as Paul despised the fact that he was forced to raise a then seven-year-old while still nursing his shattered heart, he never had the audacity or irreverence to confront his father about his own desertion of Mike and himself. But after all the _‘counting on’_ his father did even then, Paul still couldn’t catch a break--a moment to take a breather for himself and get away for just a few hours?

He wasn’t defending his negligence--Mike was one of the most important people in Paul’s life, and he wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving him alone had he not thought he could handle it--but his dad had been on his back for two years about stepping up to the plate and batting home runs at every curve ball thrown his way. The pressure was exhausting, and some days, Paul still felt like just a kid himself.

But Jim McCartney could probably hardly see how dearly his eldest son cared for the youngest, because he rarely had time to be around either of his boys. So, here Paul was, swept away in a sea of guilt and condemnation because he relished in a night to himself and a fraction of fun.

In the interim of Paul’s silence, his father spoke again. “I’m assuming you at least have an excuse for why you couldn’t come home or, at the very least, call.”

Paul _assumed_ everything was purposefully stern and patriarchal, his dad’s way of compensating for the scoldings smothered by a year of his absence. Yes, laying the disciplinaries on thick was a swell way to prove a point and reclaim fatherhood. The notion was laughable and highly unfair. And Paul didn’t _need_ the guidance; he was fairly well versed on how to handle himself and Mike by now.

And yes, he certainly had an excuse; but the validity of it was greatly questionable, and that’s why Paul decided to tweak it. “Well,” he cleared his throat when his voice cracked and shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “I just went out with a mate. We popped in the record shop, then went back to his ‘ouse to listen to the records and play guitar. Time just got away from me, and we fell asleep before I could ring.” Paul swallowed and found himself to be a man on trial awaiting his verdict.

“Time just got away from you, eh?” Jim asked, his chin cradled by a working class hand, resulting in minimal movement from his mouth as he talked. He spoke in that tone that was borderline condescending--a cruel tactic all parents occasionally used to get their guileless children to hope they were on their side for once. But Paul knew better and weakly nodded in response. “Aye, pity, that,” his father continued on. After a pause and another brief assessment of Paul’s appearance, he asked, “Where’re your records at?”

Fuckin’ useless liar he was.

“Didn’t buy any,” he defended simply. He bit at his thumbnail and crossed his legs, feeling squirmy and ready to bang the gavel on this trial so he could retreat to his cell.

Jim hummed; in acceptance or suspicion, Paul couldn’t tell. “How’d you listen to ‘em, then?” Suspicion.

“Well, I didn’t have the money for any, but _he_ bought some.”

Another hum. “And who was it you were you out with?”

Christ, this amateur interrogation was starting to get under Paul’s skin.

“Bloke from school named John. He’s a nice lad, really. Likes music n’ all just like meself.”

Did Paul really think John was a nice lad? No. Well…that whole topic was still up in the air, and Paul wanted it to stay higher yet until he finished things up with his dad. Regardless, did Paul want his _old man_ to think John was a nice lad? Hell yes.

If word got around to Jim what kind of character John was, or Paul foolishly spilled the truth of all they did last night, he’d never see the light of day again, let alone see _John_ again. Why was that suddenly a concern, though…?

“Paul, I’ve told you that music--”

“Paul?” Before Jim could work himself into a tangent where he’d criticize another enjoyment in Paul’s life, a frail call of his name sounded from the kitchen doorway.

As the summoned McCartney turned to look, he only had time to meet a pair of brown eyes glowing with relief before his younger brother rushed to his side, throwing his arms around Paul’s neck and burying his face in his shoulder.

After a stunned moment, Paul wrapped his arms around Michael’s tiny torso and breathed a laugh at the familiar clinginess. For a few seconds, they embraced wordlessly--even Jim having the consideration to cease his lecture as he watched the interaction. But when Paul felt a wetness at the exposed parts of his neck and heard quiet sniffles, he grew concerned, and his brotherly instincts kicked in.

“Hey, what’s wrong, Mikey?” Paul whispered, turning his head to eye the shaggy head of hair on his shoulder. It took him a few moments to respond, and he released a significantly stronger cry at the acknowledgement of his distress, the noise escaping as though it were never meant to, and his stomach visibly clenching from the force of it. Patiently waiting, Paul rubbed his back with one hand and stroked his hair with the other, finding that creating a safe haven with his body was the least he could do for his younger brother. He almost wished they were alone while they shared this moment; his father’s presence felt more like an intrusion as he continued to sit there and observe.

 _Didn’t come runnin’ to you, did he?_ Paul thought as he locked eyes with his father before returning his attention back to Mike. Immediately, he realized it was a selfish thought and showed more vindictiveness towards his father than concern for his brother, so he cast it away and strained his ears to hear his brother’s muffled response.

“Thought you weren’t coming back,” he weakly mumbled, the sound lost somewhere in the soothing scent and texture of Paul’s t-shirt. “Thought something ‘appened…or that you were gone.” His words were choppy, occasionally broken up by sobs sounding like ocean waves hitting rocks, unsteady and abrupt.

Paul knew what _‘gone’_ meant. It was a safer word than dead. It was a word Paul had to use in the context of their mother when given the responsibility of spreading the unbearable news to Michael.

And the foolishness of what he had done hit him yet again like a blow to the head. Michael had probably killed Paul off seven times over in his hypotheticals last night; not intentionally, per se, but just as a result of his overactive imagination and panicked frame of mind. The fear of losing another loved one--his big brother, no less--was most likely one of the more realistic monsters lurking in the closets of his mind and under the bed of his heart.

Before Paul could crucify himself further, he gently hoisted Mike onto his lap, continuing his soothing ministrations as he whispered to him, “No, no, Mikey. I’m right here, lad--shhh. I’m never gonna leave you like that again, okay?” He felt a faint nod against his shoulder and rocked the boy in his arms, murmuring all of the consolation he could into his fluffy head of hair. “It was a daft, daft thing to do, and ‘m sorry…. I’m so sorry, Mike.” Paul sealed his apology with a kiss to his head.

After a second where Michael collected himself, his response was a quiet, “S’okay.”

But it wasn’t. Paul knew that. And considering the weight of his next words, so did Jim.

His father sighed and rose from the table, speaking them without even looking at his son. “Paul, you’ll be expected to stay home for a week. Besides school and maybe the shops, I want you here. No going out. Understood?” Every order was sharp and crisp, no wiggle room for argument or compromise.

“Yes sir,” Paul said, answering robotically and staring at the wall behind the chair in which his father had sat. Apparently, it was the only satisfactory response Paul had given all morning, for his father left the room without further comment or question.

Meanwhile, Paul still held his brother in his arms, absentmindedly stroking his hair as he considered the final ruling. Ruthless or reasonable? He wanted his mind to tell his heart how to feel, but the words got stuck somewhere along the way. Words like remorseful and ashamed sputtered down the highways of his thoughts, breaking down in the most inconvenient of places and forcing Paul to acknowledge them. There was a void within him, and currently, the person in his arms was the only one who could tame it to a bearable ache.

He tried not to think about how John’s presence--his care and concern--also managed to soothe the emptiness.

After directing his thoughts back to his father’s final declaration, the bang of a nonexistent gavel pounded in Paul’s head and would continue to do so for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor punished Paul. Poor heartbroken John. All is tragic. Leave a comment to tell me how you felt about it all.
> 
> So the next chapter is currently nonexistent, but I couldn't wait a second longer to post this update. I'll start on the next one as soon as I can, and I find it very motivating when y'all take the time to come back and ask about updates. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading, thanks for commenting, and thanks for liking. It makes it all the more worth it! <3
> 
> ***Shameless self-promotion*** Follow me on [tumblr.](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com) That one is my Beatles/McLennon dedicated blog. I'd like to know of ideas or requests for fics if you have any (I wanna do a Modern AU sometime in the future but only have a few ideas myself) or if you just wanna chat!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can actually say that I wrote this instead of sleeping. Well, a majority of it, anyway.
> 
> So, this chapter is a bit shorter, and you could almost consider it a filler chapter. I only added it because I thought John and Paul's reconciliation would have been too sudden without a bit of tension. And as much as I want to dive into their relationship, I don't want it to seem like they're so quick to forgive and forget. This has been a hard aspect for me to juggle--the way they want to admit their feelings but are also reserved around one another--but I hope it's been working out well.
> 
> Thanks for reading, liking, and commenting! I hope you enjoy <3

Paul expected the rest of his weekend to crawl across the calendar with agonizing slowness, leaving him with nothing to occupy himself but everything to think about. Recurring waves of guilt about what he’d done to Mike washed over him during contemplative moments when nothing could distract him. Occasionally, thoughts of John would drift into his mind like a breeze, swirling around in dizzying twirls before floating away again. Those were most tiring--the ones that stayed with him longest. They confused him and then angered him _because_ they confused him.

His opinion of John should be simple. The thoughts about him should be nonexistent. He should be of very little concern to Paul at the moment.

_So why couldn’t he get him out of his head?_

His guitar suffered the brunt of his hair-pulling frustration, but he could only play it when his father was out, and that was uncommon on the days he didn’t have to work. Therefore, Paul was left with little playing time unless he wanted to be criticized for spending his time so ‘unproductively.’

Eventually, he decided the best way to keep himself preoccupied and the quickest way to appease his dad was playing the role of Mr. Mom. Jim McCartney hardly ever committed to the role himself, even on the days where he actually had the time. Therefore, around the clock, it was always Paul’s duty.

But no amount of burdensome housework could overshadow the relief he felt from Mike’s forgiveness. It was no surprise, honestly; the boy was unrelentingly merciful. At least, he was when it came to Paul. The latter still felt guilty, yes, but the fact that his little brother crawled into his bed in search of comfort the night he came home made him breathe a relieved breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Unfortunately, relief was short-lived. Just as the weekend tapered off, Paul realized he’d soon have to face John again. He ran through the scenarios countless times in his head--him avoiding John, John avoiding _him,_ John blowing up at him, John continuing to pursue him. He couldn’t decide which one was more desirable, so Paul reasoned he would make things easier for the both of them by staying out of John’s way entirely.

Come Monday morning, a bundle of nerves replaced Paul’s appetite for breakfast. There was no real reason to feel anxious. Paul wasn’t afraid of John or his hostility--he’d proved he was headstrong enough himself to handle Lennon many times already--but he knew it was going to be difficult seeing him again in general.

That’s why Paul cleverly decided not to. Instead of waiting around for the bus to pull up, he and Mike left home a little earlier than usual and pedaled their way to school on their bikes. Paul dismissed all of Michael’s questions about the sudden change in routine by excusing it as a need for exercise. As odd as it was, it was enough to keep the young boy pedaling. And, luckily, Paul actually managed to avoid John before school started.

Well, avoid him _physically,_ that is. Upon settling into his first lesson, he couldn’t help but notice how many blokes around him seemed to be on uppers. Paul wasn’t an experienced druggie, but the effects were too strikingly present to be ignored. Apparently, Monday’s were when demands reached a peak. And Paul knew, and had been told, where those lads were getting their fix. To keep his mind from wandering to those buyers and a certain brown-eyed seller, Paul vainly kept his attention on the books on his desk or the instructor at the front.

 

~ * ~

 

When lunchtime rolled around, Paul was still in a bit of a funk--a funk that stuck to his clothes and shaped his face into a look of stoicism. His own movements happened without his permission, and he was sat at a table with George across from him and a tray of food in front of him before he’d even realized he was in the canteen.

Either everything seemed so dull compared to Paul’s hectic weekend, or it had always been that way and he had just grown so accustomed to the monotony that it felt natural. Either way, the ill-timed routines became increasingly insufferable. The one thing he didn’t find fault in was George’s company. Paul didn’t think that could ever become dull; the lad was a great friend.

George evidently noticed his friend’s odd behavior, for after minutes ticked by and Paul only continued to stare at his plate with a sullen expression, he said, “Might wanna eat that food ‘fore it starts eatin’ _you,_ mate.”

Paul looked up with far-away eyes at the sound of another voice. “Huh?” he mumbled before belatedly hearing what George had said. “Oh,” he looked back down and gave a weak laugh of recognition, “yeah.”

The laugh was so hollow and forced that George could only cock a bushy eyebrow and consider Paul for a moment. “You alright there, Paul?” he finally asked, still trying to tread carefully.

Paul looked up again and hoped he was pulling off his best look of nonchalance. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” he asked as if it was an unfounded concern. As if he wasn’t clearly more lackluster than usual. As if his mind wasn’t playing a constant loop of his night with John and immediately feeling guilty and giddy and confused with every fresh repetition.

“Well, you don’t really look like yer all here.”

“Yeah? And what’s that look like?”

“Kinda like Mike did that time ye tried to teach ‘im guitar a few years ago.”

Paul genuinely chuckled at that. He could still see all three of them huddled in the sitting room, George hunkered down in an armchair with his own guitar in hand, and two McCartney’s sharing the sette and Paul’s guitar. The body of the guitar was practically as big as Mike’s, and the young boy had this dazed look on his face the entire time. Paul was a bit over-enthusiastic and hopeful in assuming an impromptu lesson would be a fun way to spend their Saturday. Within fifteen minutes of the session, Michael was unamused and out the door, off to join his friends with a restless, childish energy.

“What a useless attempt that turned out to be,” Paul said, reminiscing with more fondness than annoyance.

George nodded in agreement but quickly wanted to get back to the subject at hand. “Anyway, c’mon, tell me what’s wrong,” he urged.

“Nothing’s wrong, Geo. I’m _fine.”_ At this point, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself, as well.

“Yeah, you’re fine and those bints behind the lunch counter are a bunch of Brigitte Bardot’s.” Paul sighed, knowing he was losing steam to keep fighting. “C’mon, spill it.”

Paul scratched the side of his head and quickly thought of the easiest explanation he could give. “Just had a um… _eventful_ weekend. Da’ got all bothered about it. I had a row with him…and that’s all there is to it, really.”

_That’s all I can_ tell _you, really,_ he mentally added.

“Ohhh,” George smirked, obviously picking up on something unintentionally mischievous, “ol’ Paulie’s come back to Liddypool a naughty boy, has he?”

Paul fought off a blush and swell of pride at the suggestion. He shouldn’t feel prideful about what he’d done. It was fun, sure, but the aftermath was nothing to hold his head up about.

He cleared his throat, sat up straighter, and clarified, “No, no, nothing like that. Just, um…stayed out a little later than, uh--than usual.” He cleared his throat again, hoping the sound would distract George from the awkwardness in the air.

Given that the younger boy furrowed his eyebrows with even more concern than he’d had before, the attempt was futile. “You sure yer alright?”

Tearing pieces of a napkin off in his hand, Paul lowly responded, “Couldn’t be--”

Before he could finish, however, two firm hands slapped the metal surface of he and George’s table, causing both boys to jolt and snap their heads up. Standing as a panting and determined mess before them was a familiar wide-eyed boy.

“Paul!”

“Ivan, what the--”

“You seen John, mate?”

Paul knew this sight. Dilated pupils, frantic movements, and chaotic hair was quickly replacing the image Paul once had of a bright-eyed and level-headed mate. He was worried about Ivan but felt like they were now too distant for him to be of any help to him.

At the rushed question, however, he faltered. Why would Ivan assume Paul had seen John? _Paul_ of all people. Ivan was the one who had formally introduced them, not the other way around. Christ, he had only called John a mate for one night, and now he didn’t even know where he stood with the boy. But he most definitely wasn’t one of those _‘mates’_ that stood behind the school to push pills and smoke ciggies with the ted.

The thought that John may be avoiding him as much as Paul was avoiding John also niggled at Paul’s brain. It was hypocritical, yes, but the idea still drove him deeper into his hole of self-loathing. It was selfish to simultaneously want to see John again but also want to stay very far away from him. The fact that John was unknowingly giving Paul what he initially wanted should have elated him rather than troubled him.

Paul chanced a look at George--gauging his reaction to the question as if it’d better help him figure out his own--and said, “No, I haven’t se--”

“Well, he’s s’posed to be givin’ me my fuckin’ pills and I can’t bloody find ‘im.” He rubbed a hand over his face and scoured the lunchroom like the determined junkie he was.

“‘Eard he hangs about behind the school at lunch. Ye checked there?” George spoke up (Paul was silently grateful), a striking antithesis of Ivan with his unhurried speech and calm manner.

Ivan seemed to slow himself at the sound of a voice to which he hadn’t spoken. He unabashedly studied this friend of Paul’s before deciding to acknowledge him. “Hadn’t crossed me mind. Thanks, mate,” he said, though it sounded far from casual and slightly hesitant. Turning his attention back to Paul with renewed energy, he slapped the table once again. “Welp, I’m off to see a bloke about a pill. Thanks for the help, laddies!” With the grin of a lad about to be eight miles high, he left the boys to themselves again.

Paul stared after Ivan’s retreating back, his mind still on the last question he’d been asked. Thankfully, George broke his reverie before it could wander astray.

“That was…interesting,” he said, clearly trying to find a suitable word for what had happened. Considering George was a bit like himself, Paul assumed he didn’t associate with the pill-poppers much, and thus, wasn’t very accustomed to their behavior.

In lieu of answering, Paul absentmindedly nodded, still blankly staring at random faces around them. But, patient and tolerable as always, George trekked on in the wake of Paul’s silence.

“Why would he be askin’ _you_ about John?” he asked, voicing the thought on Paul’s mind just minutes ago.

Paul shrugged and finally turned to George, mustering every ounce of conviction he could when he said, “I haven’t the slightest.”  

 

~ * ~

 

John waited in anxious anticipation behind the school. The brickwork was cool on his back, and cigarette smoke burned in his lungs. The dichotomy was similar to the one of hope and dread currently consuming him.

When the stub of his neglected cigarette stung his fingers for some attention, he hissed and flicked it to the ground in irritation. Paul had planted the seed of irritation in him on Saturday morning, and it had only continued to grow with every day, nourished by the water of whiskey and the heat of his anger. He knew the sight of Ivan jogging his way across the farmost corner of the building would either strengthen that budding rage or stomp it back into the ground.

“Well?” John asked, impatient and wanting to waste no time.

“Yeah, ‘e’s in there. Talkin’ to some bloke I’ve never really seen before,” Ivan said, reporting the news John so desperately sought in choppy breaths.

“Christ,” John muttered to himself.

And the seed grew. The stalk sprouted upwards, lodging into his throat and making it difficult to swallow, sprouting leaves that scratched at his stomach in mockery of the butterflies that once were.

Paul was avoiding him. Plain and simple. His absence on the bus had been reasoned through so much that John had ended up giving himself a smidge of reassurance. Paul was running late because he had to help his brother (an aspect of their life John knew nothing about but felt comforted by, anyway). Paul looked ill from his hangover, so his father decided to keep him from school for a few days. The one he wouldn’t let himself think twice about: Paul was so disgusted by John and all  they did that he was going out of his way to avoid seeing John. All were possibilities that piled in John’s head like a stack of cards until he eventually chose one at random and contented himself with it. But now, he’d weaseled a buyer into the lunchroom to satisfy the lasting bits of curiosity and came up disheartened yet again.

With Ivan still standing before him in greedy excitement, John routinely reached into his pocket for the lad’s order. “S’pose yer waitin’ for this,” he said, to which he received a wide smile in return.

Even this whole charade of pushing pills was losing its appeal. It was the same old druggies with the same old demands. And Christ, John practically gave them away for free now, tossing them around for simple favors like finding out if the bloke he pined over was hiding away in the lunchroom. The money made from it was less of a necessity and more of an aftereffect at this point. But should he stop, people would no longer have a need for him.

He _needed_ to be needed.

“Thanks for the help,” John added as he lit a fresh cigarette and used the smoke to cloud his thoughts.

“No, no, no, thank _you,_ John!”

Lennon scoffed and rolled his eyes as Ivan patted him on the shoulder and left John and his mates to do whatever the fuck it was he did.

Just as John leaned more fully against the wall in aim of withdrawing from any social interaction, Stuart approached him, disbanding all hope.

“What’d ol’ Ivy want? You seemed to leave ‘im satisfied as usual,” he said. John could feel his eyes alighting beneath those dark shades though he had yet to turn and acknowledge his friend. And he guessed there was some sort of sexual innuendo in those words but was too weary to find it.

“Just another addict wantin’ his fix,” John said, low and cynical. Stuart sighed and removed his sunglasses. _Time for the serious shit,_ John thought. He certainly didn’t have the patience for a therapy session at the moment.

“You still not gonna tell me what’s got yer knickers in a twist?” Stuart asked, eyeing John more clearly now that his shades were in his pocket.

No. Of course John wasn’t. He didn’t need a shoulder to cry on when things didn’t go his way. If McCartney could move on and be all buddy buddy with another bloke (something that still bothered the older boy), then so could he. Move on, that is. Chatting it up with his mates or a bloke of any kind wasn’t currently on his to-do list.

Needless, to say, Sutcliffe was proving to be a nuisance rather than a help.

“Me knickers are perfectly straight, thank you.” John indulged him with decreasing tolerance. He was sure Paul wasn’t suffering as much as himself--no friends pestering him about airing his woes, because Paul probably wasn’t even distraught in the first place.

“Mimi havin’ it out with you? Yer little boy-toy _not_ havin’ it out with you?” Stuart teased, jostling John with his elbow.

Whether it was in jest or mockery, the comment irked John more than it should have. He felt his jaw clench and his eyes cut to Stuart before he could even maintain his mask of indifference. And before he could respond, a shit-eating grin spread across his friend’s face, making John think of how much more bearable that face would be with his fist in it.

“Aye, that’s it, ain’t it? Ol’ loverboy givin’ you the cold shoulder, is he?”

“Lay off, Stu,” John warned, his fingers already itching for a fight. He inhaled sharply on his fag, hoping the smoke could filter his words before he said something they’d both regret.

“Aw, come on, love, share with me,” Stuart pleaded, clearly finding enjoyment in the teasing.

By now, he had drawn a small crowd from the gaggle of their other mates--Pete, Colin, and Eric coming to see about the commotion. When Pete brought up John’s obvious foul mood, Stuart unhesitatingly informed them about problems John didn’t see as their concern.

And when Colin proved he was ballsy enough to conjure up a snarky comment for the sake of a laugh, John saw his chance to lash out and took it.

“Nah, Johnny’s prob’ly just bummed that the bloke can’t give head worth a fuck.” No sooner had the insult left Colin’s mouth than John pushed him against the harsh bricks with a fist twisted in his collar.

He could hear the shouts of surprise behind him, but it was as if they were travelling through a tunnel and reaching his ears seconds late. His nerves were alight and burning. Fleetingly, he thought he could take on any number of his mates should they try to stop him.

“Think you’ve got the right to talk shit about a bloke who ain’t even here?” John snapped, feeling feral and unhinged. With his teeth gritted, his voice threatening, and his grip tight, John knew this unfortunate soul wasn’t going anywhere until he said so. “I oughta fuckin’ pummel you right now just fer thinkin’ you do. Won’t be sayin’ much of anything with yer teeth down yer throat, will ye?”

The cigarette in his mouth wobbled unsteadily with every word, and John had half a mind to press it to Colin’s cheek for insulting Paul in such a way. For fucking _degrading_ him and assuming he was even remotely similar to the classless twats John had had before.

“Hey, man, i-it was just a joke, alright?” Colin stuttered, his eyes wide like those of a caged animal’s.

“C’mon, John, let ‘im go. He didn’t mean it,” he heard a voice call behind him. Pete’s, was it? Sights and sounds clashed and mingled until there was nothing but a red haze fogging his vision.

“Another wisecrack like that, and yer face’ll be the only thing that’s funny ‘round ‘ere, got it?” When Colin only wordlessly nodded instead of giving him the verbal answer he’d been looking for, John roughly shook him and demanded, _“Got it?”_

_“Yes!_ Yes, Jesus Christ, I got it!”

Narrowing his eyes to mere slits, John eyed his target and the fearful look in his eye. Feeling spiteful, he took the cigarette from his mouth and held it dangerously close to the boy’s face, feeling him squirm beneath his grip. After a moment’s teasing, he put it out against the brick beside his ear, close enough to startle the lad but not close enough to harm.

Finally, he relented his hold and stepped away, eyeing in sinister satisfaction Colin’s now roughened up state. Finding an outlet for his rage helped ease the tension in his bones, but he knew the ache would recur with vigor once he realized why he’d pushed Colin into that wall in the first place.

Feeling the tension of the uproar he’d created already tightening around him, John always knew when the time to run after a fight was. He turned and began leaving his friends without pause for thought. The pressure of pretending was already becoming too much.

“Where you goin’, Lennon?” Stuart shouted after him. Though he’d only walked a few paces, he was already too far gone. He could see the gate that guaranteed his freedom just up ahead. And still, he was so much further than that. Far away from all of this bullshit and all of this frustration.

“Anywhere but here,” he shouted back without slowing his pace.

 

~ * ~

 

When Tuesday came and went with still no sign of Paul making an effort to see him, John decided it would have to be him to take charge, to mend what he’d undoubtedly broken. But in the midst of walking to Paul’s house on Wednesday evening to force some form of interaction between the two of them, he never expected to stumble upon a shocking and heartbreaking incident in the middle of the street.

As he rushed over to intervene, he realized it could only be a cruel twist of fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers, how fun! The possibilities are endless.
> 
> Yeah, so, I have the idea of how the next chapter will play out, but it's not written yet. Hopefully, I'll have it written as quickly as I had this one. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments make my day! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers!
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long for this chapter, but this one's hella long, and there are no breaks at all. I hope you like it, and I hope we're still going down a good track! I love all of the support, and you guys are really the ones keeping this thing alive!!!

Wednesday evening began innocently enough.

Their steps on the way home fell just the same, their conversations possessed their typical liveliness, and Michael was as carefree as ever.

No lonely little boys in cold bathtubs, and no drunken nights in pubs.

Paul thought they might actually be on their way to restoring normality.

As soon as he and Mike set foot inside, the latter darted into the kitchen, knowing the sooner he completed his homework, the sooner he could be back out the door. Paul barely had time to fully shut the door before his brother was sat at the kitchen table with all of his assignments sprawled across it like a studious little lad. Paul smiled at the eagerness and opted to cater to Mike’s needs before taking care of himself. He fixed the two of them a snack and cuppa then sat beside his brother simply so he’d have some company as he worked.

When Mike at last finished, he jumped from his seat and flaunted his papers before Paul with restless expectancy of approval. “Okay--I’m finished! Can I _please_ go now?” he begged.

Paul took the papers and studied them with painstaking slowness. The whole drawn-out ordeal was mainly done in jest, and after roughly a minute of squirming around like the spot where he stood was on fire, Michael finally caught on to Paul’s intentions. The thoughtful humming, the look of deep concentration, and the occasional prolonged sip of tea was all brotherly teasing and purposefully dramatic to drive the young McCartney’s impatience further to the brink.

 _“Paul!”_ he urged when his brother gave another feigned hum of consideration.

“Yes?” Paul asked nonchalantly, raising his head and looking very similar to a teacher.

“I’m losin’ daylight here. Can I go or what?” Michael placed his hands on his hips and stuck a foot out in persistence. Paul had to bite his lip from smiling. The eight-year-old embodied a sass that Paul was loathe to admit he could have easily picked up from himself.

“Ooo, testy--that’s no way to get you outside, little one.” He shook his head and tsked, ignoring the frustrated sigh from Mike. Finally, he eyed the paper, eyed his brother, and sweetly relented, “Alright, Mikey, off you go, lad. Good work.” He affectionately ruffled his hair and rose to clean up their teacups.

Michael hesitated no further and stuffed his work back into his bag. As he bolted for the door, he yelled a thank you to his brother, who warned him to be in when the street lights came on but only received the slam of the door in response.

While Mike ran about with the neighborhood kids, Paul adhered to his punishment by staying inside. Alternating between sipping a fresh cuppa and flipping a page, he got caught up on his own work in his room, saving himself from a dreadful repeat of the last time he fell behind.

Occasionally, he would glance out the window for a mental break, getting lost in the flapping of a bird’s wings or the sound of a car driving by. He thought about song lyrics and his mum. He thought about what he might be doing in a different version of himself, if he weren’t a bloke hearing others live their lives from his window…. Perhaps what he’d be doing if he were someone like John. He thought about John--wondered what he was doing…what he was wearing…who he was seeing…. But Paul never let himself assume an answer, never let himself solve the mystery.

He always averted his gaze from the window and carried on working.

With every turn of a page, the sun seemed to creep further towards the horizon. And by the time he finished his work, the yellow glow from a nearby street lamp flooded through his bedroom window and illuminated Paul and his desk. He slammed his book shut with a relieved sigh and prepared to clean off his desk when the silence following the echo of the slam drew a frown to his face.

No low muffles from the telly downstairs. No patter of footsteps in the adjacent room. No shouts of his name.

Paul glanced another look at the faint gleam of the street lamp before leaving his room to search the house. In every room, he came up short, unable to find any sign of Mike being home. The young boy knew when to be expected. How could he forget when Paul told him everytime he went out in the evening?

When his gut twisted itself into knots, Paul thought he might be overreacting. In his defense, however, that scare from just the other night left him guilty and keenly watching Mike like a hawk every minute. When he grabbed his shoes and made for the door, Paul thought he might be in hyperactive brother-mode. Then he remembered how his father would skin his hide if something else happened to Mike under his supervision. And when he wrenched the front door open, he realized all of his concerns were warranted.

Approaching him from the end of the walk was a boy who was becoming harder and harder to forget.

The sight of John was enough to leave Paul speechlessly gaping from the front step, but as he came clearer into view, he noticed that the older boy carried someone on his back. Scanning his eyes across the small body riding piggyback style, Paul saw the face of his younger brother, bloody and bruised, peaking from just above John’s head. His face fell from stupefaction like a sack of bricks and quickly morphed into immense shock.

And Paul couldn’t leave the step fast enough. Running to meet them, he never once took his eyes off of Mike’s face.

“Shit, what the hell happened, Mike?” Paul asked in a panic, coming to a stop just before the pair.

Standing this close, he could assess the damage more clearly, though lighting was still minimal at this hour. There were the distinct beginnings of a black eye on Michael’s left eye, the skin already dark and swollen. Blood seeped from his nose and led a crimson trail to a cut on his upper lip. Tears streaming down his cheeks attested to the emotional toll all the obvious pain had on him. There was hardly a spot on him that wasn’t tainted red, black, or blue. Paul guessed there could be more damage that was just harder to see in the dark, but God, it was already so bad he hoped it couldn't get any worse. He raised his hands to touch Mike’s face, but they froze in midair, afraid to inflict further harm.

John cleared his throat, knowing he'd have to speak on the poor boy’s behalf. “I was on me way over here when I saw ‘im bein’ jumped by three other lads on the walk. I ran ‘em off and carried ‘im ‘ere. He hasn't said a word the whole way.”

“Jesus,” Paul whispered, shaking his head. He reminded himself that he had to prioritize everything before he could allow himself to blow up about Michael’s mistreatment. “Mikey, can you hop down, lad? We need to go get you cleaned up, okay?”

Michael silently nodded and loosened his grip around John’s neck. Paul came around and took his brother into his arms as John passed him off, saving him the trouble of walking. As soon as he was in Paul’s protective hold, Mike found another neck to secure his arms around, and he rested his head on Paul’s shoulder. The silence was already tearing holes in Paul’s heart.

Before he led them inside, Paul looked at John, who looked rather concerned himself. “Hey, thanks for bringin’ him here. I really appreciate it. I was just about to come lookin’ for ‘im, ye know. He’s usually in by the time the streetlights come on, so it’s not like I forgot about ‘im or somethin’--”

“Paul, it’s okay, you don’t have to defend yerself,” John soothed. “There’s no way ye could’ve known what was happenin’…. I’m just glad I came across it.” Had it been any brighter out, surely John would’ve kept walking, for he wouldn’t have been wearing his glasses. But because it was nearing night and he needed them to see on the walk over, he could make out a certain McCartney covering his head to feebly dodge blows to the face.

Paul nodded and tried to ground himself. “Um, so, yeah…again, thank you. That was…kind of you.”

He turned to head inside when John quickly said, “Wait--could I come inside for a mo’? Ye know…just to make sure ‘e’s okay?”

Paul bit his lip and looked around them. “Erm, ‘m not so sure if that’s--”

“It’ll just be for a bit, then I’ll be out of yer hair. In n’ out.” John lifted his eyebrows, a pleading look on his face.

A sniffle sounded in Paul’s ear, and as he turned to look, he could see blood still flowing freely from Michael’s wounds. He knew they couldn’t waste anymore time on the front step and saw no harm in John sticking around to make sure his brother was okay as long as they made it quick. After all, it would be rather rude to send him away when he had stopped to help.

Paul sighed. “Okay, fine. Just for mo’,” he finally reasoned.

John’s heart thumped at the permission and he followed Paul inside without another word. They immediately went into the loo upstairs, one of the few rooms in the house with which John was actually acquainted. Paul turned on the lights and sat Michael on the white counter-top.

Both older boys crowded close to Michael, shocked at how battered he truly looked in the bright bathroom lights. Among the damage they’d already discerned outside, there were scratches along his forehead and cheeks. Each cut on Mike’s face was a cut to Paul’s heart. And in that moment, they shared the same blood--though his brother’s was physically evident, Paul’s seeped through every crevice of his being until it pained him, too. He carefully swept the boy’s hair away from his forehead and tenderly cupped his face so he could turn his head and see every angle of it. As the light reflected the red pools coating his face, Paul’s heartstrings twisted themselves into tight knots within his chest. He suddenly realized this poor boy was on a terrible streak of luck the past few days.

Michael whimpered with the movements, and Paul shushed him before letting go and digging around in the drawer where they kept medical supplies. He placed band-aids and cotton balls on the counter and grabbed the rubbing alcohol.

“Damn, Mikey, they really got yer snot locker good, huh?” John said lightheartedly, noticing how his nose was the bloodiest thing on his face. The silly name for his nose actually drew a laugh from Michael, and John briefly caught Paul’s own smile in the mirror as he maneuvered around him and further into the room. While Paul prepared the cotton balls with alcohol, John tore off some toilet tissue and twisted it into a long, thick wad. “This should clog ‘er right up, eh?” He handed Mike the tissue to put in his nostril, then instructed him to pinch the bridge of his nose while keeping his head down.

As he moved in with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball, Paul’s curiosity piqued. “How d’you know so much about bloody noses and bruises?” he asked John.

John shrugged and grinned. “I’ve had me fair share of fights. And what about you, Nurse McCartney?”

Paul cleared his throat and looked at the wet cotton ball in his hand. “Mum was a nurse.” Refocusing, he mentally shook himself. Just before he touched the cotton ball to Michael’s forehead, he warned, “This is gonna sting a bit, Mikey.” Regardless of the warning, Michael hissed and involuntarily flinched. “I know, love,” Paul sympathized softly, “but c’mon, you can do it. This’ll help, I promise.”

Michael visibly held his breath and let his brother continue. Paul didn’t like the lack of communication; he could see how broken this little boy felt. The tears had stopped, leaving his cheeks ruddy and streaked, but the visceral pain shone in his eyes. Paul didn’t want to pressure him into telling what happened just yet, but he’d like to have it out of him by the end of the night.

With only the cut on his lip left to be disinfected and tended to, Paul passed Nurse Duty over to John for a moment. “Hey, could you finish up here? ‘M gonna run downstairs and get some bags of ice.”

John, who was hovering over Paul’s shoulder throughout a majority of the process, nodded when the younger lad turned to look at him. “Yeah, sure--no problem.”

Paul shot him a genuine smile and went downstairs.

After watching him go, John set to work, cradling Mike’s chin and gently dabbing at his busted lip, careful not to get any of the alcohol in his mouth.

“Y’know, Mikey…you look pretty tough,” he eventually said, wanting to air out the somber mood of the room. His tone was light and commending. “Don’t think I’d want to be messin’ with a bloke who’s strong enough to take that many hits.” He managed to pull a small smile from Mike, a look of pride, and was desperate to keep it there. “You know what yer gonna say if people ask about it?”

Michael’s eyes were questioning, but he was still too visibly shaken to utter a word. John was just glad to see a little bit of a spark in his eyes.

“Yer gonna tell ‘em: _Think I got it bad? You should see the other guys!”_ he said, inflecting a cocky tone. “Then yer gonna tell ‘em how many lads you took on--four, five!--the more the merrier!” He finally wiped any remaining blood clean and looked at Mike with raised eyebrows as he pointed the fingers holding the cotton ball at him. “I’m tellin’ you, that’ll send any other blokes that wanna test you runnin’ for the hills. You’ll be the most feared little lad in town.” He disposed of the bloodied ball then clicked his tongue as he affectionately knocked the young boy’s chin.

That smile was a full-fledged grin now.

“What’re you tellin’ him in here, eh?”

John and Michael whipped their heads to see Paul leaning against the doorway, bags of ice in hand and a fond smile on his face. Obviously, he’d heard John’s entire conversation with the quiet Mike, but he didn’t look bothered in the slightest. He actually seemed amused.

He pushed himself off of the doorway and came forward as John shrugged and nonchalantly excused, “Oh, just tellin’ ‘im to eat his greens, always wear his best knickers, don’t spit into the wind…. Just yer basic life lessons, really.”

Michael giggled. So far, it was one of the only positive sounds they were able to pull from the boy all night.

Paul shook his head with a quiet laugh and moved back into the room. John’s stomach fluttered at this unguarded side of Paul, the one that didn't bother to smother a laugh or hide a smile, and it was probably a stupid thing to feel happy about, but John couldn’t help grinning like mad. Being here with these two boys made him forget the frustration one of them had caused him over the past few days. For the time being, they were working with a clean slate.

“Here, Mikey, we’ll put these on yer lips, nose, and eye--”

“Oh my,” John quipped halfheartedly.

“--for swelling.”

Paul moved Michael from the counter and onto his lap as he sat on the closed toilet seat. In this position, it was easier for him to help Michael hold the ice bags on every necessary area. He soothingly rubbed his back with his free hand and ventured to ask the question on the tip of both his and John’s tongues.

“Think you can tell us what happened now?”

Michael shook his head. Paul sighed.

John decided it was as good a time as any to enlighten Paul a little further on what he saw. “I don’t know what exactly went down, but one of the boys in the group was Pete’s younger brother. Him and his lot tend to run around n’ bash on people for no real reason. Think it’s funny, they do. Probably picked it up from Pete.”

John could see Paul’s eyes turn cold on the spot and his jaw visibly clench.

Before he responded, Paul wanted Michael out of the room. He kindly asked if he could wait in the sitting room and watch telly while he spoke to John in private. It wouldn’t do the still shaken lad any good to hear Paul’s next words. So when Mike forlornly left the room and the door shut behind him, Paul felt safe enough to speak.

“Well, you make sure Pete tells them to keep their fuckin’ hands off ‘im, yeah? You think I want him coming home like this everyday--scared to even go out in case blokes start beatin’ ‘im up? He’s been through enough shit as it is, and the last thing he needs is a bunch of cunts kickin’ ‘im while he’s down.” The deep furrow of his brow made Paul look tougher than he’d ever presented himself. His words were surreptitiously laced with all of the ominous consequences of fucking with his family.

Paul rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face while he leveled his anger.

For a second, John could only gape at the outburst (though somewhat subdued compared to some he was known to have himself). He didn’t like to see Paul so conflicted and distraught.

John squatted down to be level with Paul as he remained seated on the closed lid. He gently removed the hands blocking the lad’s face. He was unsure where this tenderness was coming from but didn’t want to question it. Something told him this was important.

“Don’t worry about it, yeah? I’ll make sure Pete gets the message loud n’ clear and his little swines back off.”

“Good,” Paul said, his features set as he looked in John’s eyes with determination. He noted the sincerity on the other boy’s face, as well, then sighed, casting his eyes downward. “I wish I could pull more outta Mike about what happened. I got a feeling he’s gonna be in that shell for a while.”

“Aw, I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, love.” John nudged Paul’s leg. “I mean, the lad just got the shit kicked out of ‘im. I wouldn’t be too keen to talk meself.” When the dark-haired boy met his eyes again, he teased, “And I think I know where he gets that shell of his from.” He nudged Paul again and was rewarded a smile.

However, the smile swiftly fell to a puzzled sort of frown. “Why are you doing this?” Paul asked, studying John’s face intently. John sensed the change of tone and almost felt squirmish under the attention but forced himself steady.

Involuntarily, he mimicked Paul’s frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…you come out of nowhere like a fuckin’ hailstorm. Yer pill pushin’ at school, but then you come to my ‘ouse n’ yer buyin’ me brother new shoes--which he refuses to take off, by the way. Christ, I have to practically _wrestle_ them off before he gets into bed.” John breathed a laugh at that and shyly looked down, shaking his head. “And now here you come, knight in leather armor, pullin’ ‘im from an outmatched fight when most blokes wouldn’t’ve batted an eye. _Kids will be kids_ n’ all that, y’know. Most mates I’ve had only saw ‘im as a pest. Don’t take the time with ‘im, y’know…’cept George, of course. ” Paul lapsed for a moment, looking to his nails and putting himself back on track with the point of his tangent. “So…what ‘m sayin’ is…why d’you do all this for ‘im? Why do you care?” Paul mumbled, withholding from his tone and face the emotion that John’s care, in turn, made _he himself_ care.

John thought about it. The conflicting cues of John’s Paul had picked up and the questions concerning them were loaded with a desperate need to understand. As he always did, John lived by impulsivity. Only when a whim turned out bad would he question it in hindsight. So, even _he_ didn’t know why he treated Paul’s brother as if he were his own. He didn’t know why he was here now, sitting on this bloke’s bathroom floor and trying with all of his might to pull him from a funk he hadn’t even expressed he was in.

John cleared his throat and transferred his weight to his knees so he was kneeling before Paul rather than squatting. “Well, I mean, e’s a good kid, ain’t he? I don’t think he’s a pest in the slightest. And, anyroad, you love ‘im. He’s important to you, and that’s…that’s, y’know….” _Important to me_. Instead of voicing the thought, John punctuated the statement with a shrug.

Paul looked down again for the umpteenth time, and John just wished the boy would learn how to hold eye contact. Big browns like those were too breathtaking to stare at dirty floors or scuffed shoes; it was almost selfish for Paul to withhold his gaze. And John knew he could never see them enough, could never grow bored of their depth.

But even with his eyes averted and his head hung loosely between his shoulders, a smile touched Paul’s lips like it wasn’t meant to be there. With his mile-long lashes sweeping along his cheeks and an airy laugh spilling from his lips, John could tell that this time the younger lad looked away in bashfulness rather than discomfort.

Finally, Paul said, “Yeah, he is.” Like a receding tide, his smile grew weaker until he donned tight lips and a serious expression. “And I do. I love ‘im a lot.” He spoke low and nodded his head as if he needed to confirm his own words. As if the care he had for that eight-year-old downstairs wasn’t so _blatantly_ obvious and enunciated in all Paul did for him. The fact that Michael wasn’t even there to hear the declaration somehow strengthened it, made it even more genuine.

“So that’s why you do it, then?” Paul asked, wanting to clear the air before its density suffocated them. He raised his head and met John’s eyes. “Because I love ‘im--because he’s important to me?” Something swarmed in that odd, uncertain space between his stomach and heart; perhaps, it was the feeling of butterflies meeting heartbeats.

John swallowed and nodded. “That’s--it’s _one_ reason.”

The shifting of the atmosphere was palpable and as gradual as clouds moving across the sky. But just like a cloud, John knew if he were to reach out and touch it, it would dissipate between his fingers. So, for a moment, all they could do was stare. The visual clarity of Paul’s eyes and parted lips made John realize they were a tad closer than before. He was still on his knees but had sat back on his heels to be more comfortable, and Paul still had his elbows on his knees, slouching forward the slightest bit so there was less than a foot between them.

When John couldn’t take it anymore--the heady staring and the close proximity and the dark eyes--he knew now was the best time to question the very thing happening.

“Paul, can we talk about what’s happening between us here?” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, husky and quiet. He cleared his throat and spoke with a passion he didn’t know he had. “Look, you can tell me it’ll never amount to shit, or you can tell me we live in two different worlds where people like us don’t work--tell me that, and I’ll leave you alone and walk away right now--but _don’t_ say you don’t feel this, too.”

John wasn’t a begging man; but in this situation, there was no other way to describe him. On his knees before Paul and voicing his desperation with mentally clasped hands, he was a beggar indeed. But at the moment, there wasn’t a single fiber of his being that gave a fuck.

For once, Paul decided not to feign confusion about what John was hinting. What was the point in tiptoeing around themselves anymore? He sighed and looked to his hands before admitting quietly, hesitantly, “Of course I bloody feel it.”

John felt a small swell of relief. Paul wasn’t rejecting him, wasn’t pretending he was out of his love-struck mind, wasn’t making this all-consuming attraction unrequited. He was _acknowledging_ his feelings-- _acknowledging_ this spark between them.

“You know that day you tied Mike’s shoes in the ice cream shop scared the _shit_ outta me?” Paul said, having missed the flicker of hope in the older boy’s eyes.

John’s thoughts sputtered to a stop and his brow furrowed in confusion. The ice cream shop? What the bloody fuck did the ice cream shop have to do with this? Were he and Paul not on the same page after all? Rather than interrupting, however, John wanted to hear him out.

Paul took a deep breath and looked at his bitten fingernails. “Before we left for Berkshire, Mike n’ I had to go to me mum’s funeral…a bad place to take a seven-year-old in the first place, really. But, um, all throughout the ceremony, he walked around with his shoes untied. Wouldn’t let anyone tie ‘em and threw a right tantrum--kickin’ and screamin’--when they tried.”

Paul lapsed for a second, swallowing hard as the memories played out in his head. He could feel John’s eyes never leaving his face, probably wondering where this was going and what it all had to do with ‘them’. More so, he could feel the dreary graveyard; it still haunted his bones. He could hear Michael’s wails; they still echoed like ghosts in his ears. Paul ignored the stinging in his eyes and pushed himself to continue. “Me mum _always_ tied his shoes. _Always._ Mike wouldn’t let anyone else even try, said she always did the bunny ears the best. Mine were too tight, da’s were too sloppy, but mum’s…mum’s were just right.” He breathed a laugh and rapidly blinked his eyes. “So,  naturally…she wasn’t there to tie ‘em at the funeral.” Paul bit his lip and shrugged.

Getting to the point of his story, he finally looked up and said, “You went to go tie Mikey’s shoes that day…and I thought the lad was gonna have a bloody _fit._ Cause that’s what he does, y’know. But he fuckin’ _let_ you and _smiled_ at you, and _keeps_ smilin’ an’ _keeps_ laughin’ at you every time yer around…. So that’s what terrifies me. That you like him and he sees somethin’ in you that…,” he trailed off and searched John’s eyes deeply before quietly finishing, “that I think I’m seein’ a little more of every time I look at you.”

“Why are you afraid of that?” John frowned and moved closer. He grabbed one of Paul’s hands and gently held it in his own. With a fluttering stomach, Paul followed the movement, letting his hand fall limp for John’s touch and watching as the older boy explored his fingers and the palm of his hand.

“Because we’re too different,” Paul said quietly, still captivated by John’s fingers. He spoke monotone and as if it was all so clear. “Because yer a boy. Because ‘m not yer type--”

“Oi,”John tipped Paul’s head up with his free hand by placing a finger on his chin, “who’re you to tell me what my type is?” His tone wasn’t harsh or biting. It was a soft breath; an incredulous thought of _‘yer daft if you think that’._

Regardless, Paul shook his head and whispered, “The list goes on and on.”

Well, if that was the case….

“Fuckin’ hate lists. I think they just distract us from what we really want.” With a finger still on Paul’s chin, John couldn’t resist to move it higher, softly stroking a random pattern onto the boy’s cheek. After watching his own actions, he flitted his eyes back over to Paul’s. They were heavy-lidded and glowing with something he knew Paul used to try so hard to reserve. And John knew they shared it, shared that feeling of want keeping Paul’s eyes paradoxically dark and alight at the same time.

In the thick silence, John moved his attention back to Paul’s hand. He grabbed Paul’s wrist and aligned their hands--Paul’s left to John’s right--so their palms were facing but not touching.

“You feel that?” John asked, intently looking at their hands, less than an inch of space separating them.

“The heat?” Paul’s hand was slightly shaking from a confusing mix of nervousness and excitement. But he didn’t miss the tangible heat festering in the spaces where they nearly touched. The energy flowing between them was fervent, and Paul could feel the warmth of it on his palm like a kiss from the sun.

“Yeah,” John murmured.

Paul swallowed and nodded. “Yeah, I feel it.”

“I think that means something.” John looked at their mirroring hands, their mirroring selves. So different, but so alike. So _made_ for one another. “That’s us.”

Drawn towards that heat like a moth to a flame, Paul closed the gap between their fingers. He touched his fingertips to John’s then slotted them together entirely. The grip was firm, a tight seal of approval to some unspoken agreement they’d just made. Immediately, John knew his hand was meant to hold this one and no other.

He looked at Paul and a small smile spread across his lips. Instantly, Paul matched it, and there was no more room for words. Still clasping their hands together, John came closer until the porcelain of the toilet made contact with his pelvis. Paul spread his legs to accommodate John’s new position, and his eyes involuntarily fluttered when the other boy’s free hand came to rest at the back of his neck. Slowly, he drew Paul closer and leaned up to meet him. Paul’s hold on his hand tightened fractionally, and John could hear a whisper of a gasp escape his lips. Their noses touched, and Paul’s lips tingled with the anticipation, with the _want_ of kissing John’s. With eyes loosely shut and breaths unsteady, they moved that littlest bit further and--

“Paul?! Paul, where are you?”

The two boys jerked apart at the booming call from downstairs. The youngest knew that voice all too well, and the very sound of it made his blood run cold. John, on the other hand, didn’t recognize the voice in the slightest and had no idea of the hell they’d both catch should the man downstairs know he was in the house.

But Paul did, and he was up on his feet and dragging John from the floor by his arms in the same amount of time it would’ve taken to actually start that kiss.

“Oh fuck,” Paul hissed. “Shit, shit, _shit!”_ He grabbed at his hair in panic before realizing he needed to get both of them moving towards the door.

John frowned but allowed himself to be pushed. “What’s wrong? Who’s that?” Whomever it was, he definitely wanted to go down there and kick their ass for ruining their moment.

“That’s my da’, and I was grounded on Saturday, so yer _really_ not supposed to be here right now,” Paul explained, his eyes bugged and panicked.

“Paul!” Another shout sounded, and it sounded closer now, drifting up from the bottom of the stairs and ramming its way into the loo.

“Yeah, ‘m in the bathroom! Just a mo’!” Paul called back. Lowering his voice, he whispered in John’s ear from behind. “Look, ‘m not s’posed t’have people over, so ‘m gonna sneak ye in my room. Don’t come out ‘til I’m in there.”

Rather than arguing, John nodded, and Paul peeked his head outside of the door to make sure his father wasn’t coming up the stairs or onto the landing. When he heard his voice drifting from what seemed to be the sitting room, he quickly grabbed the front of John’s shirt and hauled him to the room across the landing. Unintentionally roughly (though something told him John wouldn’t mind it that way), he shoved John inside and told him to hide in the closet or under the bed just in case. Ignoring the _‘are you serious?’_ look from the older boy, Paul closed the door and rushed downstairs.

In the sitting room, Mike was curled up on one end of the couch, the ice bags Paul had given him still held dutifully in place and his eyes glued to the telly where a game show was on. Their old man stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips and a clear look of displeasure on his face. When Paul entered the room, Jim immediately rounded on him.

“What the hell happened to your brother?” He gestured with a hand as though he needed to address the obvious damage on Mike’s face.

Shit, Paul couldn’t catch a break with this codger.

“Well…um, what has he told you?” The odds that Michael would be more open with their father than he would with himself were slim to none. But a part of Paul wanted to know his little brother hadn’t spilled the news of a forbidden guest in the house.  

“Hasn’t said much of anything, Paul,” Jim said, his anger and condescension peaking early. “He gets just as stuck under that damn telly as you do with that bloody guitar.”

Paul’s jaw clenched and his eyes picked up on the uncomfortable shifting coming from Mike. This wasn’t a new routine; when things got tense or he didn’t want to talk, Michael would plop himself on the sette and block everyone out with the hum of the telly. Also familiar was the more aggressive tone of his father. Apparently, Jim had had a hard day at work. On days like these, he’d come home with a biting tongue and take it out on the one he thought could endure it most--Paul. And if the sting of alcohol coated it, that tongue could be even more lethal than even Paul could handle. How he managed to keep his cool some nights was beyond him.

Paul counted to ten but only reached five before he replied, “It’s not his fault. I’m the one who said he could come watch it.”

“And I guess yer his father now?”

_May as well be. Someone’s gotta be when yer fuckin’ not around._

“No,” Paul mumbled. “‘M just sayin’, if yer gonna have it out with anyone, it should be me, not him.”

“Aye, I was just gettin’ there,” Jim said calmly, but the words were too insolent to be undermined. “So, again, what happened to Michael?”

Paul took a deep breath and bit his lip on any snarky comment dying to leave on the exhale. “Da’, we came home, and Mike did his school work. I let ‘im go out when he finished, then I started on me own studies.” The weight of his father’s stare as Paul spoke made him feel like he was slowly sinking into the floorboards. It’d be best if he could get lost between the cracks and not have to confront this situation at all.“I get done, the streetlights are on, but Mike’s not home yet. When I go out to look for ‘im, he’s at the top of the street with a bunch of lads scuffin’ ‘im up.”

Jim rubbed his hand across his forehead. Paul awaited the criticism to follow.

“Paul, I’m workin’ double the hours to keep you boys here. Do you know what that means?” He looked at Paul but clearly didn’t expect an answer. “It means I can’t be here every bloody minute of the day. But with the way things are goin’, it looks like I need to be. I mean, Christ, son, one night yer leavin’ yer brother at home alone, and the next he’s gettin’ beat up in the streets on _yer watch._ You see a pattern formin’ here, lad? Cause I do, and I don’t like it.”

Paul tasted blood on the inside of his cheek. Metallic, acidic, and as hot as the blood running everywhere else in his body. “Do you think I purposefully--?”

“What I _think_ is I better not come home to a sight like that anywhere in the near future,” Jim said sternly, looking at Paul intently as he blindly pointed a finger in Mike’s general direction. “Are we clear on that, lad?”

“Yes sir,” Paul said lowly, understanding the argument was over and the battle was lost.

Jim continued to stare at his oldest son even as he said, “Mike, no more goin’ out in the evenings if yer brother can’t seem to find the time to go with you.” The insinuation of his last words hit Paul like a blow to the face. _If yer brother can’t seem to find the time?_ Shots fired at the legitimacy of his concern for Mike were the most painful.

As if knowing he wouldn’t get a response from his youngest, Jim turned to leave the room.

Paul sighed and felt a small sliver of calmness wash over him. It wasn’t enough to restore his cheeks to their pale complexion or to uncurl his fists, but it was a start. Like a spot of blue on a cloudy day, Paul looked past his red haze and saw Mike still curled up on the couch. The sight of his short legs stuffed under him as he tried to cradle three ice bags to his face was rather pitiful, but simply because it was his brother, it still made Paul forget all else.

He crouched in front of Mike for his undivided attention and, low enough so their father couldn’t hear, murmured, “Hey, don’t worry about him, okay? You know how he gets sometimes…and none of it’s yer fault, so don’t go gettin’ that in yer head.” The eight-year-old looked at him with wide but understanding eyes and gave a small nod. “I’ll be up to help ye get to sleep in a minute, okay?”

Paul made to turn and get up but decided to clarify something at the last minute. “And all that about John helpin’ you and bein’ over here stays between you n’ me, yeah?” he asked, speaking even lower than before. When Michael once again nodded, he added, “Scouts honor, right?” A toothy grin sprung onto the younger boy’s face and he nodded more animatedly. Paul found himself immediately returning it and stroked his brother’s hair. “Good lad.”

As he rose and made his way to the bottom of the stairs in the hall, he could hear his father’s spiteful, grumbling complaints still carrying from the kitchen.

“‘M gonna take a guess an’ say ye didn’t make dinner yet either.”

Paul scoffed and climbed the stairs.

Once he made it in his room, he shut the door and rested his back against it, closing his eyes and breathing a sigh. When he opened them, John leaning against the headboard of his bed with his legs stretched out and a music magazine in hand was the sight greeting him. Upon seeing Paul, he did a double-take before closing the magazine and tossing it to the side. He gave a bright smile, and the nonchalance of it all made Paul wonder just exactly what John expected to do should it have been his dad walking through the door.

“Hi, honey,” John said cheerily.

“I thought I told you to wait in the bloody closet,” Paul whispered, fearing his father could cross the landing at any moment.

“Babe, I spent years tryin’ to get _out_ of the closet. What makes you think I’d wanna go back in?” John said with a smirk. He got up from the bed and made his way towards Paul, who was still leaning against the door like it could be forced open at any moment.

Paul shook his head with a smile. When John stood close enough, Paul could see the sudden crease in his brow. “Was that yer old man downstairs?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Paul said with a wry smile.

“I don’t like the way he talks to you,” he said simply. John didn’t know if it was his place, having only heard a snippet of the row and having never met the man; but, frankly, he didn’t care. Blame it on his history with paternal figures, but he just didn’t think Paul should have to take that shit from his old man.

“Aye, well, not much I can do about it right now.” Paul shrugged. John settled his hands on his mate’s waist, but the concern never left his face. “He’s still me da’, and it’s still ‘is house.”

John looked away, still unsatisfied. “If he gives you anymore lip, you can guarantee I’ll be over to kidnap you n’ Mike,” he said, raising his eyebrows with a now more playful look.

“Oh, how noble of you,” Paul laughed. “Reckon you’ll have us as a bunch of thievin’ bandits. The McCartney’s and The Maniac.” He jokingly prodded John’s stomach with his fingers.

John smiled. “Better believe it, baby.” He leaned in and gave Paul a peck on the cheek. Pulling back, suddenly wary, he carefully asked, “This doesn’t change anything, does it--this stuff with yer da’ an’ that whole list you were makin’ in the loo? Yer still gonna give this-- _us_ \--a chance, right?”

Paul bit his lip and studied John’s eyes, so vulnerable and honest. “Yeah…. Yeah, I’m gonna let us have this,” he said with a nod and locked his fingers behind John’s neck.

Because he suddenly realized he wanted this. He wanted John’s hands on his waist and John’s kiss still imprinted on his cheek. He wanted to see John smile in his sleep, and he wanted to wake up to his messy bed-head without starting the morning with a row. There was so much to experience with this boy, and Paul was glad they met so young--at an age before time ticked away and dreams fizzled out.

“And that’s yer choice? Yer--yer not doin’ it cause you feel pressured or obligated or summat?” John asked, rubbing circles onto Paul’s t-shirt with his thumbs.

“Of course not. I want this. I…I wanna try to make it work. It just feels wrong to keep pretending, y’know? I only kept pushin’ you away cause it was easier to fight it all that way.” He paused for a moment then teasingly asked with a smile, “When did you become so insecure, anyway, eh?”

John felt like there might be more matters to press concerning this new relationship (surely that wasn’t the only reason Paul had pushed him away), but he also thought Paul had undergone enough for one night. So, instead, he said, “When I started seein’ the most gorgeous lad on this side of the Mersey.”

Paul chuckled. “I appreciate the cheeky flattery, but it’s time for you to get home, Lennon.” With the hands on his shoulders, he guided John across the room while the older boy dropped the hands on Paul’s waist and frowned.

“What're you doin’?”

“Showin’ you towards tonight’s dramatic exit.”

John turned his head, frown still in tow. “But…the door’s--oh no, yer fuckin’ with me, you are,” he said, whipping his head back around to gauge Paul’s seriousness.

With a small smirk, McCartney replied, “Surely you didn’t think you could just waltz out the front door.”

“Fuck, mate, but the bloody _window?”_ John looked out of it with something akin to dread when they finally reached it. There was a drainpipe off to the side, something he was familiar with, but the height looked none too appealing. “I know fuck-all about Romeo and Juliet, but ‘m pretty sure the bloke wasn't _scalin’_ that bloody balcony.”

Paul lifted the window up while John stood by and continued to gawk outside. A cool night breeze instantly met them, almost making the prospect of jumping out there a pleasurable one.

When Paul stood up straight, he placed his hands on his hips and said, “Well, we’re not yer typical love story, I'd say.”

John grinned. “You puttin’ labels on us now? So soon?”

Paul knew John hated labels. John _knew_ Paul knew he hated labels. But coming from Paul’s mouth, they sounded like promises. John didn’t care what Paul called them as long as there _was_ a _‘them’._ If Paul wanted to dub them the queers of the century, it’d be a-okay by John.

Paul's cheeks warmed the slightest bit, and for a moment, he felt daft. But he knew it was all in jest. John had been the more aggressive pursuer after all.“Oi, shut up and get out me window ‘fore ye leave here by ambulance instead.”

John stuck one leg out the window, straddling it, and rested his foot on the minimal space of the sill. Staring at the distance below like it was an abyss rather than a matter of a few feet, he mumbled his next words.

“Aye, one slip-up and I might be doin’ that anyway.” Paul found the hesitant tone slightly funny. Put Lennon on the edge of a two-story window, and all of his bravado would go tumbling right out of it.

Shaking his head with a smiled, Paul made to leave and go to Mike’s room before the lad went to sleep. “Bye, Johnny.”

“Wait--” But before he could get even a pace away, John grabbed his wrist.

Paul sighed and turned. “What?”

And suddenly, John pulled him in. With a tug of his wrist and a fistful of his shirt, he brought Paul down until his lips met John’s own. Paul’s eyebrows darted up and his eyes went wide before slowly closing entirely. John swallowed his mate’s initial surprised shout and quickly lost himself in the feeling of Paul's lips. The kiss immediately went heated and needy, John keeping a death grip on the cotton of Paul’s shirt with one hand while the other loosely kept fingertips on the boy’s jaw. It was an odd clash of lust and tenderness, but John thought it could perfectly describe their relationship at any given moment.

As if out of his own control, Paul found himself moving forward, hunching his back and placing his hands on the sides of John’s neck to steady him as they kissed. His brain ran ragged trying to decipher and catalogue each individual sensation: the thickness of John’s sideboards as he ran his thumbs over them, their noses pressing into the side of one another’s, and _oh,_ John’s tongue as he teased it into Paul’s mouth. The way he would slip it in for a second before pulling back and leaving Paul chasing for more short-wired the younger lad’s brain.

Paul begrudgingly relented sucking on John’s bottom lip in favor of opening his mouth a fraction wider to deepen the kiss. When their tongues met, Paul’s skin tingled and felt as though it were melting altogether. Paul knew John had been with lads, but now the evidence truly presented itself. As if knowing every spot that would make Paul moan, John used his experience to his advantage. His tongue would glide along Paul’s and briefly caress the roof of his mouth, always seeming just out of reach. But when he finally ceased the teasing licks, he let Paul assert his own dominance in the kiss, reveling in the boy’s sweet taste. A deep moan escaped the older boy, and Paul briefly wondered how the lad hadn’t fallen out of the bloody window yet. Certainly, Paul couldn’t be the only one falling here.

John’s breath was warm against his face, recreating that heat they shared earlier. Gradually, John eased the kiss into innocent pecks and nibbles on lips. Though he knew he’d outstayed his welcome, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Paul’s lips were utterly addictive and the sounds of their clinging kisses played on a loop inside John’s head. With a final long, closed-mouth kiss, John ended the heated embrace and looked at Paul.

The younger boy almost looked frozen in place, his lips sinfully parted and his eyes still shut. John could see how he relished in the aftermath of their kiss, his lips probably still tingling as much as John’s with the memory of the touch. As if to confirm John’s thoughts, Paul’s tongue licked over his lips and he visibly swallowed. The fact that some of that taste was John’s own sent a bolt of heat straight to his abdomen. With the fingers still resting loosely on Paul’s jaw, Lennon traced the swell of his mate’s lips, thrilling in their full shape and pink tint.

When a sigh escaped, John felt the warmth of the air like another kiss.

“I still wanted that goodbye kiss,” he whispered, his only excuse for the sudden burst of affection. Paul opened his eyes and a small grin adorned his cheeks.

“And how was that?” he whispered back.

“Yer fuckin’ amazing.” John could feel his heart thumping in his chest, threatening to push him out the window with the force of it.

Paul shook his head and chuckled. “Yeah…that was something else.” Clearing his throat, he removed the hands still holding John close and stood up straight. “Well…I need to go see Mike ‘fore bed, so I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

John flashed a toothy grin. “Long as you don’t go missin’ buses to avoid me.”

Paul felt a tinge of embarrassment and guilt, and bit his lip as he looked away. When he turned back, with more seriousness, he managed, “Right now, I wouldn’t dream of it, Johnny.”

John scoffed good-naturedly. “Daft git,” he mumbled, but gestured Paul closer with his index finger. When Paul did as bid of him, John kissed him once more, something to keep him partially satisfied until tomorrow. “Goodnight, Paul.”

“Night, Johnny.”

Paul watched his boyfriend (his love-struck brain wasn’t coherent enough to consider John anything else) safely climb down the drainpipe and plant himself on the concrete below. After jokingly blowing Paul a kiss (and Paul catching it like a good sport), he strutted away from the window and towards Mendips.

When John was out of sight, Paul closed the window and rested his forehead against the cool pane. He watched as his breath condensed on the glass. Everything about him felt molten when John was around. In the solace of a few minutes to himself, he allowed his thoughts to run rampant. The beginning of his night had him about to go on a manhunt for his little brother before John swooped in with the beaten boy already at their doorstep. As if it couldn’t get more hectic, however, he ended the night with an irate father and a new relationship.

Paul at least thought these sort of chaotic circumstances happened over the expanse of a week, not a single night.

But when he remembered the intensity of John’s touch and the way his eyes shined when he smiled, every other roadblock of the night was paved over and cemented with Paul’s newfound happiness. Being with another bloke was foreign territory, but maybe they could talk everything out so that this thing wouldn’t crash and burn from the very passion that started it. When Paul wanted something, he put his heart and soul into it…and in this case, John would receive no less.

With an ever-present smile, he lifted his head from the window and went to Mike’s room.

Suddenly, he noticed how everything came full circle. Just as it began, Wednesday evening ended innocently enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope the affection wasn't too cringey! I tried to smooth it out this time, so let me know if I got any better lol.
> 
> Of course I love all of your wonderful comments, so please leave them! I'm not too sure where these next chapters will be going. Obviously, I'll expand on their relationship, and I have some more major plot points in mind (we honestly haven't even reached the climax of the story yet). But I still need to think of some things for them to do. Maybe Drunk!Paul will make another appearance.....
> 
> Oh! And I finally explained Mike's shoe situation (about time, I know)! I got the idea from a TV show (21 Jumpstreet) but the dialogue was mine. It was such a heartwarming moment that I had to add it.
> 
> ***Shameless Self Promotion*** If you'd like updates on the fic or just wanna see me struggle with the writing process LIVE, check out my [tumblr.](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com/) I post other shit, too. Don't be afraid to come with questions, comments, or anything in general, really!! (((I'm friendly, I swear)))


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This took quite a while. I'm not even sure what to say. I think I got a little too distracted by the other fics I'm working on. But I hope I make up with all of the ensuing kissing and touching.
> 
> Also, I've pretty much re-written the plot of this story. I think it'll actually turn out better than what I originally had planned. I'm really trying to finish this thing up so thank you for being patient with me and I hope I don't keep you waiting that long again. You may notice that I'm going to try to end this at chapter 18, but that is still tentative right now. I'll try to get more organized for y'all!
> 
> Shout out to prettymacca. All of the waist, ass, and hip grabbing is for you, my friend!!! <3 ILY for your inspiration and motivation and encouragement!!

Fingers drumming on the tops of his thighs, legs bouncing through the floorboards, bottom lip suffering anxious gnawing as eyes dart every which way: all symptoms of the impatience John failed to stifle. How fortunate they were also trademark effects of prellies--John’s safest excuse should his mates grow curious.

John wished cloud nine was high enough to describe how he felt; but, it was well below him, in the bowels of the universe, whereas he nestled in its heart. He wished he could articulate how his heart pounded in its cage with unbridled enthusiasm; but, Paul had stolen all of his words in that kiss last night (he fancied they were still on the boy’s lips.) Yet, most of all, he wished Paul would just get his gorgeous arse on the bus already.

John didn’t like grinning like an idiot. Made him feel daft inside and out. He didn’t like coming home to Mimi’s badgering inquiries. He didn’t like when his insomnia worsened because reality and dreams fused so tightly he couldn’t decipher one from the other. But if all of these encumbrances were the mainstays of Paul’s affection, the way to coax longevity from their budding relationship, well…John could learn the rules of adjustment.

Voices collided in the bus, falling short of John’s ears and landing on his cheek or the empty space beside him. Empty but specially reserved. Truly, he tried to engage in the jocularity around him--occasionally being the butt of a teasing remark about his distant behavior--but his mind wandered far and near of the passing scenery. In the absence of thought, he felt like a part of the scenery himself, only living in passing.

Then finally, _finally,_ Paul stepped onto the bus, a sight for sore eyes after an insufferable night. Likely healed from the angelic vision alone, John hardly needed his glasses to confirm it was him. And with every approaching step, anticipation surged through him with jolting force. When Paul hovered in the aisle above John’s seat, he immediately noticed how refreshed his mate looked. There was something different about him, something John wished he could trace as easily as the features of Paul’s face. So radiant and smooth, they were. How much simpler it would be to reach out and touch his cheek than to unravel the mystery of what had it smiling in the first place.

“This seat taken?” Paul asked, one hand on the back of it. John found himself mimicking the grin Paul obviously tried to bite away.

“Sorry to say it is, actually,” he teased. “‘M savin’ it for a gorgeous lad o’ mine. Big browns. Luscious locks. And soft, soft lips.” He all but moaned the last words as he noticed a redness touching Paul’s cheeks. “Looks a bit like you, actually.”

“Well, I thought maybe I could keep you company while you wait, but seein’ as you don’t need any…,” he trailed off as he turned to walk back towards the direction from which he came.

“Oh no you don’t,” John laughed, grabbing Paul’s waist and hauling him backwards until he too was seated on the bench, or rather, nearly in John’s lap. “Silly sod.”

Paul squirmed around, struggling to find his footing and avoid John’s prodding fingers. They poked at his sides while John giggled and murmured daft nothings into Paul’s hair. Pulling Paul closer and closer like the dips of his waist were John’s personal handles, he kept the boy pressed to his chest. Heart to spine. Beat to bone. A combination that made John want to hold him in his lap forever.

Apparently the commotion caught the attention of his mates, for a blonde head loomed over their seat, an intrusive third party to their playfulness.

Pete cleared his throat knowingly. Only taking a moment to place the noise, Paul quickly maneuvered himself to sit properly and cleared his own throat for lack of explanation. As he straightened out his uniform, he noticed from the corner of his eye the annoyance on John’s face.

“Can I help you?” John asked, impatience clipping his words. Beside him, Paul remained mute and facing forward, the epitome of a schoolboy caught doing something naughty. Well, it wasn’t far-fetched.

“No. But you could help _everyone_ if you didn’t bugger yer lad on the bus,” Pete said. Reconciling after spotting the glare narrowing John’s eyes, he added, “We need you back here. Eric wants to know if you’ve learned the words to that Cochran number yet.”

“I’d watch it if I were you, mate,” Paul spoke up, turning his head to face Pete. The image of Mike’s beaten face rippled into his mind with the acidity of bile. The knowledge that the bloke hovering over their solitude was also related to one of the pricks who cornered his brother made Paul’s blood run hot.

“Pardon?” Pete said, glancing from John and back to Paul with a frown as though he could find meaning within the span of the movement.

“You shouldn’t be giving me another reason to lay yer arse out,” Paul said, clarification only provided for himself. His stomach toppled with the recognition of confrontation. Now that the words were out, he couldn’t swallow them. They solidified in the air around them…hopefully strong enough to protect Paul’s face from impending blows.

Evidently John hadn’t expected such a declaration either. Speechless, he gawked at Paul with as much surprise as the latter felt himself.

“What’re you on about?” Pete’s temper rose as quickly as Paul’s, the red tint creeping up his cheeks vouching for it.

“After that shit _your_ brother pulled on mine, I’d leave mine and John’s business outta yer mouth.”

Pete laughed, a sinister chime to it. Paul coiled tighter, cocked like a gun. “Boys will be boys, Paulie. Right, Johnny?”

The call of his name broke the spell of John’s daze. The smirk on Pete’s lips and the clench of Paul’s jaw spoke of trouble, two faces ready for a fight but for different reasons. Unnaturally refereeing the tension, John warned, “Lay off, Pete.”

“No, no, John, if loverboy can dish it, he can take it.” Turning back to Paul, he added, “Here’s a thought, mate: teach the lad how ta fight or keep ‘im inside. Simple, really.”

Before he could even realize his ass lost contact with the seat, Paul was on his feet.

The dig at his brother hit him hard and the only rationality he had was to hit Pete harder. As Pete had the intention to turn and rejoin his mate, Paul kept him in close contact by grabbing his shirt and hauling him back. Rapid fire, he got in one punch, two. Pounding away at anything his fist found appetizing.

Through a haze of red, he processed bits of information--other blokes jumping from their seats, the bus stopping, voices shouting. And only when John wrapped an arm around Paul’s stomach from behind and pulled him close did the haze dissipate.

Trying to diffuse a time bomb, John brought a second hand to restrain Paul’s writhing. Even as John managed to move them to the middle of the bus, the younger lad spat curses at the blonde instigator. John shushed him, keeping his mouth close to Paul’s ear and continuing to walk him towards the front. With every labored breath, Paul’s chest rose rapidly and John held him tighter.

“Put a leash on that one, yeah, John?” Pete shouted at them, a speck of blood dotting his lip like wine. He dabbed at it with his sleeve and batted away the support from their other mates.

A gunshot before a race, Paul started at the remark yet again, gripping at John’s hold on him.

“C’mon, Paul, he’s not worth it,” John murmured.  

Only when they stopped at the front and John used himself as a barrier to keep Paul from Pete did he notice the bus was no longer moving. The driver was twisted in her seat, eyeing the altercation with disdain. The glare Paul shot passed his head and towards Pete was like a blade to John’s temple; a sharpness he tried to ignore as he locked eyes with their driver.

“John, you and yer friend--off,” she ordered with a chubby finger pointed at the doors.

Though it didn’t help to fuel the heat from Paul’s fire with some of his own, John couldn’t bite his tongue on the injustice. “And what about him, eh?” he said, blindly jabbing a thumb towards Pete with knit brows. “Ain’t ye gonna make _him_ leave?”

“Way I saw it, he was the one being attacked.”

“That’s fuckin’ bullshit an--” A hand was on his chest.

“Just leave it, John. Let’s go,” Paul said, his voice low and resigned. He turned to leave without checking John followed behind. After all the chasing John had done for so long, Paul had no doubts he would be trailing after him.

John glared at the miserable woman as he exited the bus. And as it rolled down the street, he sent it off with a two-finger salute.

“Fucking bints,” John mumbled. Turning to Paul, he softened. “You okay?”

“Yeah…fine,” Paul said, running a hand through his hair with a sigh, both falling softly.

John cupped his face in his hands, tilting Paul’s head and studying his face near-sightedly for any damage. Even as blind as he was, John knew Pete hadn’t landed a punch edgewise (Paul’s impulsivity probably surprised him as much as it did John); but, that didn’t mean he couldn’t play dumb in exchange for touching Paul. As his eyes flicked over his _very clearly unharmed_ face, he soaked up Paul’s soft features: the doe eyes that could belong to any lass across Liverpool but were instead gifted to a boy more beautiful than any of them; the delicate lashes that ran for miles down the slopes of his droopy lids; the sinful swell of his lips that made breathing seem like rocket science.

Settling his gaze on his lips, watching how Paul absently licked them with as much mesmerization as John himself felt, he saw no other option--couldn’t fight whatever force of nature drew him closer to Paul. With a final flutter of his eyes, John closed the gap and kissed Paul. Their pouty texture and rosebud complexion pulled a sigh from John.

As he held Paul’s face more fully in his hands, Paul’s own arms drew around his lover’s waist. Part of him wanted to check around them for any passersby, but a greater part of him found it  too difficult to pull away from their kiss, as closed and simple as it was. Not to mention anytime Paul so much as turned his head, John guided it back with the hands cupping his face.

When they finally broke, however, they stood smiling at one another, leaving but a breath of space between. John planted a kiss to Paul’s nose, feeling daft for loving how it crinkled. Suddenly, the swell in his chest sent a flock of butterflies flooding his brain, each carrying ideas in the beat of a wing. Mentally snatching one up with a net, he grabbed Paul’s hand.

“Come on,” he urged.

Paul frowned, about to speak. Before he could, however, John tugged at his hand. _“Come onnn,”_ he said, more insistent and with a childlike impatience.

Paul let himself be pulled further for a bit, still stuck in his own confusion. “But…the school’s that way,” he finally said, pointing behind them.

John smiled at him. “Yes, but it’s a right drag, and we’ll never make there on time on foot anyway.” He watched the conflict play out on Paul’s face and awaited his decision. “Look, love, we’ll be back by yer second class, and you just tell Mr. Teacher Man that you overslept and missed the bus. In the meantime, I got somewhere we can go,” John tried to persuade.

Paul bit his lip, mulling the prospect over in his head. He slowly nodded. “I s’pose missing me first class ain’t so bad. S’just maths after all.”

John grinned, jerking Paul closer to run a hand through his hair. “Atta boy!” he cheered. Paul laughed and shook his head, pressed his forehead to John’s.

“Lead the way, you menace,” he murmured.

Within a matter of a fifteen minute walk, they ended up at the front of a large red gate. It was one Paul had never seen before, but John beamed with obvious recognition upon it coming into view. He walked up and slid his hand down one of the metal posts of the gate, touching it as if it were the photo of a passed relative. A brick wall ran along either side of it and obstructed what bit of forestry the gaps in the gate revealed. Autumn’s touch graced the tips of the leaves at their feet: yellows, browns, and reds scattered amongst summer’s green. Mother Nature’s perfume circulated sweet and succulent and greeted both boys with the same elegance of any earthly mother.

Wordlessly, John placed a foot on the bottom of the gate and began climbing his way up. When he reached the top, he looked down at Paul from his position straddling the gate. He raised his eyebrows--the act voicing his thoughts before his words even could. “Well? What’re you waiting for? Let’s see you put those gorgeous legs to work, son.” He smirked and began climbing down the opposite side. “And not just on me,” he mumbled as an aside.

Paul rolled his eyes but grabbed hold of the red posts nonetheless. There was something fanciful in the act, a prince scaling a wall into a forbidden forest or two looters on the run. If skiving off with John was always like this--like walking in a dream or living a fairytale--Paul could see himself more intrigued by these rendezvous.

When he met said boy on the other side, he asked, “What is this place?”

John slipped his hand into Paul’s, immediately locking their fingers together. When Paul inadvertently looked down at their joined hands and raised a brow, John cleared his throat almost shyly but kept his grip. Ignoring the unasked questions, he answered the easiest one, “Strawberry Fields to many. A second home to me.”

Paul smiled at him and squeezed his hand tighter. Turning back to the canopy of trees around them, he ventured in further but kept John by his side. An aromatic fruitiness scented the air around them, paying homage to the garden’s name. There was something soothing about this odd haven--a garden nestled behind an orphanage, the home for abandoned children. At least John and Paul were standing on the greenery of common grounds…common losses.

Maybe it was the sense of belongingness they shared with the place that evoked its beauty. Birds could chirp and winds could blow, but such was infinitesimal compared to discovering one’s self while on the land of those who are forgotten.

With their fingers twisted together--vines of a tree--and their smiles soft--crescents of moons--they understood what it meant to be lost in a touch and reborn by emotion.

Paul stopped them at a spot in the middle of the fields where the light of day dipped under the tree canopies and shone brightly--creating invisible halos on those angels of earth. He lay down on the grass and squinted up at John, who remained standing. It was much easier for the older boy to take a pause, momentarily transfixed, than to tell Paul how breathtaking he was splayed across the grass--a son of nature and a captor of beauty--putting Adonis to shame where he lay.

Biting his lip, Paul stretched a hand out and grabbed John’s wrist. He tugged him down until John was forced to lay beside him. When he fell softly to the grass, he turned to gaze at Paul with his head turned. Their eyes caught, warm as the honeysuckles hidden in nature’s bouquet. John touched the smile resting on Paul’s lips, ripe and plump.

Loosely holding John’s wrist, Paul closed his eyes and kissed his fingertips. John’s hand practically trembled in his grasp, all of his joints now loose sockets from lying so close to someone he was _certain_ would slip through his fingers.

Yet here they were, Paul lounged in the grass with him and his lips on his fingers. Like there had never been an ounce of conflict between them at all, he kissed with an unhurried intimacy.

Easing his hand from Paul's lips, he slid it further up to cup his cheek. Warm and tinted red, the skin was smooth beneath John's palm as he ran his thumb along it. Paul opened his eyes, caught John's, and smiled, the action pushing his cheek further into John's hand and filling the gap naturally.

Hooked by warmth and beauty, John edged closer, finally deciding to lift himself onto an elbow so he could admire Paul's grace from above--a perch the only acceptable vantage point.

Still stranded on the point of the hook Paul had skewered him on, John felt about as deprived of Paul's lips as a dying fish seeking water. So, as any sane man would, he lowered his head and kissed him. A drawn out kiss that took breaths but gave life. John’s stomach dropped with the weight of Paul’s lips, though plush and feathery they were.

He placed a hand on Paul’s waist and snuck lower towards the hem of his collared shirt. Paul gasped, the sound passing through his nose, and reflexively placed a hand on John’s neck. His fingers curled like miniature nooses around John’s nape, binding and sealing his fate just the same. But if to be hung from the tips of Paul’s fingers was considered an execution, John would die a thousand deaths in the heartbeat of one lifetime for the opportunity.

As Paul parted his lips to deepen the kiss, John parted his to speak. “I’m glad you punched Pete,” he murmured onto the other boy’s lips, rubbing their noses together. After a stealthy fight his fingertips finally found their way onto the bare skin of Paul’s abdomen. He teasingly ran them along his stomach so that it quivered from the delicacy of every stroke.

Paul licked his lips, almost tasting John’s own in the process. “Yeah?”

While waiting for a response, he pulled John closer by the hand still clutching him and trailed kisses along his neck. How increasingly effortless it was becoming to devour the older boy with his tongue and lips. And John certainly had no qualms about it. Cocking his head for Paul’s desired angle, he also shifted himself closer until he had a leg thrown over one of Paul’s. Half lying on him like that created a friction in the places craving it most.

Finally recalling he was spoken to, John hummed in approval. The sound was overridden by the makings of a moan.

“Why’s that?” Paul asked, smiling into the older boy’s neck. He nipped at the skin, kissed the underside of his jaw, sucked at the pulse beneath his lips. The fingers on his own body became more insistent with every new tier of pleasure Paul climbed--pushing and pushing them both to something tempting and unfamiliar.

Eyes closed from the ministrations but brows furrowed from the question, John frowned. Distracted but no less incredulous, he said, “Fuckin’ deserved it, didn’t ‘e? The cunt.”

Paul breathed a laugh. John turned his head and caught the boy’s lips before planting a kiss to his forehead.

“‘Sides, you looked dead sexy havin’ a go at ‘im like that,” he added with a leer. By now John had abandoned all reserve, and his hand freely stroked the middle of Paul’s waist. Returning the favor, he peppered his boyish face with small kisses--sensual in the way that his lips traveled the path ushered by his heart, though it all seemed arbitrary to him. The side of Paul’s nose, his thin brows, the corners of his lips, and those cherubic cheeks all the recipients of John’s affection.

“Mmm, is that so?” Paul mumbled, half moaning and pushing a hand into John's hair as the boy trailed lower down his neck. He tugged and ran his fingers through it, the feeling causing John to press harder into his hip, intentional.  

John hummed in agreement. He kissed the hollow of Paul’s throat, dipping his tongue inside and savoring the saltiness. As he licked a stripe up his neck, Paul gasped and felt John’s hand, constantly on the move, ease back down towards his belt buckle.

“How ‘bout I have go at _you,_ then?” Before John had time to register the question, Paul had flipped their positions and he was now the one pressed against the grass, Paul straddling his hips and looking down with messy hair and a shit-eating grin. “Not so devious when yer on your back, are you, Lennon?”

Eyes heavy and smile growing, John drawled, “That’s where you’re wrong, McCartney. See, from here I have a better view _and_ a better hold.” Punctuating his words, he grabbed hold of Paul’s waist, eyeing him lazily as he claimed the sensual seat that was John’s lap. Slipping his hands back up into Paul’s now wrinkled shirt, John palmed his way up, aiming to stroke the top of his chest.

Paul squirmed in his lap, ticklish to the curious fingers gripping his sides and the fingernails skimming along his skin. “Oi, stop it, you,” he said half-heartedly. He bit his lip in hopes of withholding his laughter, a dead give away to the effect John had on him.

“Not ticklish, are ya, Macca?” He grinned mischievously.

Diverting attention further, Paul plucked handfuls of grass from either side of John’s head and sprinkled it over his face and hair like nature’s confetti. Blades caught on the ted’s lashes and the corner of his mouth as he scrunched his face in amusement. His hands still refusing to brush away the grass on his face, John slid them lower to cup Paul’s bum. Faintly he realized it was the first time he’d actually felt it and marveled how it melded to his hands--made for only him to hold.

Paul smiled softly and brushed the shreds of grass from John’s face. With the delicacy of stroking a flower petal, he swept along John’s cheeks and closed lids moreso for the touch than the grass. When he finished, he brushed his lover’s fringe across his forehead, finally seeing him more clearly on the backdrop of the field.

Staring in his eyes, lured by the silence and enticed by the strong hands squeezing his bum, Paul leaned forward and kissed John. From the tension of barely-there touches, the kiss immediately went deep. Whimpers and moans spilled from their lips and slipped like fresh dew between the blades of grass around them. Paul found solace in John’s mouth, rubbing his tongue alongside John’s and tugging at his bottom lip. A smokiness leaving him to wonder whether it was this boy or the nicotine that tasted so addictive.

John slid his hand up Paul’s back; he went so far as to grip his shoulder underneath the material of his shirt. Along with one hand still keeping his bum firmly pressed to his lap, John cradled Paul close in a hold that sought and supplied affection.

Supporting his weight with the hands by John’s head, Paul hovered over the older boy and embedded all of his focus into their kiss. Once he established a steady rhythm between their lips, John thrusted his hips into Paul’s, aching for the entire ordeal to be symphonic. When he realized John’s arousal matched his own, Paul moaned into his mouth. John’s hands squeezed Paul’s arse encouragingly as he began to ease into the pace of grinding John had set.

Paul’s breathing quickened. His gasps puffed against John’s lips as he struggled to keep his mouth steady for the kiss and his hips pushing with the thrusts. White noise replaced any coherence he had when they stepped foot in the field, and now his need for release called the shots. And John’s hands, firm and steady, guided him by the hips, coaching him along to find the perfect angle of pleasure for them both.

His back erotically arched atop John’s willing body, pleasure shaping him like clay. Every time he tried to pull away from their kiss for a breath, John’s lips would catch on the tip of Paul’s tongue like he never wanted it to leave his mouth. When he finally managed to keep his lover at bay with a hand to his chest, he sat up straighter, hips still minutely grinding into John’s.

Watching John’s flushed face, he began to finish the job the other boy had left incomplete and fully unbuttoned his shirt. He then shrugged it and his school jacket off of his shoulders and tossed the clothes on the grass beside them. As he turned to look back at John, the lad unabashedly ogled the unveiled skin, pupils blown and mouth agape.

Pale and smooth, his chest glistened from the heat of day. John gawked, knowing he’d soon desperately need to run his lips over every inch of that chest. For now, he revelled in this private tease Paul gave him on his lap.

“S’a bit warm, innit?” Paul commented, sounding far too casual for a bloke sitting on _another bloke’s_ lap. Things were feeling very heated, indeed.

John swallowed, his saliva thick like molasses in his throat. “You could say that.” His voice was husky, Paul’s tongue having undoubtedly reached farther down his throat than he thought.

Still captivated, John’s hands made for the boy’s narrow hips as if the decision were as subconscious as breathing. His trousers rode low on his hips--their grinding a possible explanation--the juts of his bones pressed into John’s fingers as he smoothed his thumbs over the soft skin. From this angle, Paul almost had an hourglass figure and the grains of John’s patience and self-control trickled down his curves, wasting away and becoming lost in Paul’s arches and bends. He made beauty a pipe dream and love a miracle.

“God…where have you _been_ for a year?” John massaged his thighs and used them to pull his boy closer yet.

Paul cupped John’s cheek and leaned in close, his lips a kiss away from John’s. “Right under yer nose,” he breathed, and closed the gap. When their hips rocked again, Paul let out an unsatisfied whimper. Bringing his lips to John’s ear, he whispered, “I want…more,” and tugged at his earlobe and ran a hand through his sun-kissed hair.

John moaned and slipped his hands into the gap provided by Paul’s trousers, cupping his bare arse. “I could touch you,” he suggested, reaffirming his words with a small squeeze to the boy’s backside.

Paul sighed and planted a peck to John’s temple. “Please,” he whispered, lips still slack against the skin.

“You don’t have to beg me, baby,” John said as he unfastened Paul’s trousers, making sure to occasionally rub his waist and stomach for reassurance. “Never.”

Paul’s breath caught simply from that touch alone. (Or perhaps John’s words stole it--the weight of them snatching the air from his lungs with sticky fingers.) His nerves prickled, haywire and John hadn’t even touched him properly yet.

But when he did--gliding his hand into his underwear and wrapping his fingers around him--Paul _lost_ it. On its own accord, his head fell to the junction of John’s neck and shoulder, and a groan kissed the skin there. His hips involuntarily bucked and he bit his lip lest his teeth find John’s neck instead.

As John set a slow, steady pace, Paul tried to keep his eyes open and focused on something-- _anything--_ but they rolled back in his head, insistent that seeing nothing was the best sight of all. The best way to experience John’s hand sliding up and down his member.

He panted against John’s neck, his ricocheting breaths reddening his cheeks. As though it would make John’s hand move quicker, he pressed his face further into him.

“Shhh,” John soothed, “let me.” His voice felt stuck in his throat. Nerves seized him like never before. Holding Paul like this, drawing moans from him with every twist of his wrist, was like riding the tail end of a sweet dream.

As he used the precome to stroke faster, John felt a hand going for his own trousers and Paul’s upper body supporting itself on his forearm. When Paul lowered his zip, John began to protest.

“Paul, you don--”

“I wanna feel you, too,” he said, voice rough and eyes heady. With a glimpse at sincerity in those sultry eyes, John argued no further. He nodded before closing his eyes and relishing the attention Paul was about to give him.

Unexpectedly, Paul’s hand was eager and adept. John thought maybe he was just naturally versed in the art of pleasure. With just a fucking wank, Paul pulled more moans (and even a few whimpers) than any other lad could with a blowjob.

“Christ, how’re you so good at this?” John asked, his breath catching at an expert twist and pull from Paul.

“I have a cock, too, you know,” Paul laughed.

“Oh, I know.” John quickened the movements of his hand, saving all of his best tricks for last. By the stronger grip on his own cock and the gusts of air puffing against his cheek, John could tell Paul was close. If it was the last sight he’d ever see, he yearned to watch Paul’s beautiful face contort with the pleasure of release.

Within a few more stokes, Paul came. His eyes clenched tight and his fist clenched tighter, inadvertently pulling John closer with him. But John held off. He watched with an attentiveness he didn’t know he had as Paul’s brows furrowed like they held a secret and his mouth hung open like it wanted to tell it. Instead, John heard his own name spoken like a prayer.

As the fruits of Paul’s pleasure spilled onto his fingers, John found himself finally letting go. Drifting back down from his high, Paul covered John’s cheek with butterfly kisses and never once stopped coaxing him along.

“C’mon, baby,” he said between kisses, his throat dry but his lips wet.

Having done this to himself many times, Paul didn’t expect it to be much different just because it was another lad. John twitched in his hand just the same and Paul eased him through it as he would himself. What he didn’t expect was for John to claw at his back and for his teeth to find Paul’s naked shoulder in a desperately restrained bite. Moans were lost in his skin, but they wracked through him and awoke a final feeble twitch.

Spent, he kissed John’s parted lips and wiped his hand in the grass before rolling off of his lover completely. Laying back against the grass, he threw one arm above his head and the other across his sweat-slick stomach.

However, in no time, John crawled over to him and rested his head on the younger boy’s chest. Paul looked down and could only stare dumbfoundedly at the mess of auburn hair. John didn’t seem the type inclined towards affection after sex. But when his fingers began to trace the love bite on Paul’s shoulder, Paul’s own threaded into those sweaty locks. With John, he felt more open and exposed than the field in which they lay.

John kissed Paul’s chest once, thrice, over and over until his mind blanked and his lips bruised. Paul twisted their legs together, accepting the kisses and showering in the love. Reborn like the sun of a new day and falling like the stars of night. While lying on top of him, John still managed to catch him--caught him with his lips, his arms, his affection. Any and everything that Paul never would have dreamed a sixteen-year-old boy would want. But it all bled through him and pumped his heart like the pistons of an engine.

Paul kissed the top of John’s head when the arms around his waist tightened, firm biceps flexing to keep Paul close and comforted. In their strawberry sanctuary, Paul didn’t know how he’d ever muster the energy to willingly return to class.

His voice harmonizing with the songbirds around them, he hesitantly asked, “Do…do you have any pills on you?”

John’s blood stilled then stirred at that. Since he got on the bus, the pills were the last thing on his mind. With Paul it was easy to forget who he was; or rather, the person people _saw him_ _as._ Pushing seemed like the fantasy trapped at the end of the rabbit hole; being here with Paul seemed like the reality still standing by the tree. John was at a point where he didn’t know whether he was falling down or climbing up.

He kissed Paul’s collarbone, smoothed a hand up and down his waist. “I keep some in me pocket,” he murmured into his skin, never wanting to part with the taste.

“Could I, you know…have some?” Paul asked, twirling a lock of John’s hair around his finger.

John lifted his head, placed his chin on Paul’s chest and frowned at him. “Why?”

Paul sighed and let his hand fall from John’s hair. “Just this once,” he assured, running the back of his finger down John’s cheek. “‘M rather knackered.” He smiled.

John shook his head and grinned, but raised onto his elbow to fish inside his pockets. “Get used to it, love,” he said, waggling his eyebrows as he dug through his stash.

He pulled out two pills and held them between his fingers as he hovered over Paul. A smirk creased his lips as he brought them up to Paul’s mouth. The younger boy smiled, rebellion and mischief perched on the crests of his cheeks, and slowly opened his mouth for John.

Though seeing Paul with eyes darkened and lips parted jolted a heat through John’s stomach, he didn’t plan to oblige his younger lover so simply. Just as he brought the pills an inch away from Paul’s lips, he suddenly diverted course and popped them into his own mouth instead.

Paul’s features immediately hardened, no doubt betrayed by the dirty trick. Before he could complain, however, John laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. With the pills still waiting in his mouth, John steadied Paul’s jaw and coaxed his lips to part for him.

When John pushed the pill into Paul’s mouth with his tongue, uncertainty gripped him. Something told him to stop, that he was cutting the wings off of an angel. And when Paul swallowed the pill and licked his lips, in his eyes John could already see the dying light of his halo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought! Something felt lacking but it would've taken even longer to find out what.
> 
> I love you guys! I feel so deprived of comments and writing of this fic.
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com/) if you wanna talk! I'd love to hear from you guys! <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at long fucking last! props to you if you're still reading this, and welcome to a drawn-out shitfic if you're new!
> 
> I don't know what to say about the lack of updates other than school consumed me for a long while, and then inspiration for this fic became scarce. but I promise I'll finish it!
> 
> honestly, I feel like I got a bit lazy at certain parts here, but it's close to 5k, and I tackled it over the course of weeks. I really hope it's all worth it.
> 
> happy reading, folks!

He had insisted doing it himself this time. After five months of idly observing, the temptation finally seized him.

From the sinks John watched on intently. The bitter-sweet concoction of pride and jealousy wouldn’t let him tear his eyes away from the little exchange in the corner of the room.

Paul was pushing.

And a little too hard for John’s liking. The younger lad was supposed to be selling pills, but he flashed smiles and batted lashes like he was the complementary commodity. Part of the package.

The same sultry eyes that had snagged John now bore into a baby-faced buyer. Seductively he stood, so close that the first-timer blushed and squirmed at Paul’s honey-dipped words. Maybe it was nothing, simply Paul’s natural state of being, or a salesman charade at the very least. No matter the reason, John fought to keep himself seated on the sink.

As John stubbed out his fag, Paul sealed the deal with his buyer and made his way back over. The nameless young lad scurried out of the loo without a glance back.

A small grin on his lips, Paul stood in the gap of John’s legs. He placed a hand on his thigh and fanned a twenty pound note between their bodies.

“First sell, Johnny. Got the sorry lad to pay twice the price.”

“Aye,” John swiped the note and tucked it into the waist of Paul’s trousers—a tight pair of drainies he’d nabbed for him to change into when away from home—as though he were a working girl. “Thought you mighta got ‘im to drop to his knees for a moment there, too.”

Paul sighed. A terse snatch and the twenty was pocketed. He turned around and leaned against John’s chest, elbows rested across the older boy’s thighs.

“I’m not a pill you can keep in a bag, John,” he griped, large eyes fastened on a bathroom stall.

“Hmm, but I can swallow you just the same,” John whispered in his ear, nuzzled the skin behind it.

Paul dug a sharp elbow into John’s thigh. After a pained yelp, John smiled and grabbed Paul’s chin, gently tilting his head up against his chest. Eyes hooded, Paul looked at him from the backwards angle, a grim line marking his lips.

Stunning even when miffed.

“‘M serious,” he murmured, the words rattling against John’s sensitive fingertips.

John raised his eyebrows, a mask that fit him like a glove slipping away to momentarily cast him unguarded. He arbitrarily ran his fingers along the stretch of Paul’s neck.

With a small smile, John softly mended, “‘M only joking.”

No, he wasn’t.

“No, you’re not.” The smallest of creases furrowed Paul’s brows. John ran the ball of his finger along its ridge. “Not really.”

The older lad sighed and looked away for a moment. “Well…can’t skewer me for not liking the way you flirt up a sale.”

Paul scoffed. “Bit hypocritical, love. Don’t you remember how you got me?”

“I do,” he traced the line of Paul’s jaw, gladly reminiscing, “and I’ve worked my arse off to keep you without some two-bit wanker fucking it up.”

“I wasn’t flirting.” Firmer now, honesty trimming his eyes. He caught John’s hand and kissed it. “Sold ‘im the pills and he left, you _saw_ me.”

 _Saw you_ flirting _,_ John wisely held back.

“Besides,” Paul added, facing the dingey stall once more, “you really think it’s gonna be an outsider who fucks this up?”

Just like the preludin, their relationship was founded on extremes. Paul currently felt them sailing the high, vision glossy to the negatives, and only awaited the moment for the unceremonious crash. He knew not how or when it would happen, but he was certain it’d be at their own hands and no one else’s.

His words resonated clearly, without evidence of cowardice, but his heart suddenly had set a rapid beat. Momentarily he seemed the one without a filter between the two of them. Now his concern was out, permeating through the air around them, muggy enough to suffocate.

A faint sigh pushed through John’s nose. He knew what Paul was getting at. It was a wonder John hadn’t fucked it all up between them already. He understood his jealousy to be a wild beast in a corroded cage, but he often tried hardest to tame rather than tease it.

Fortunately, in a docile mood, John was too weary for a lovers’ quarrel.

“You did good, Macca.” He kissed the boy’s forehead.

Paul closed his eyes and revelled in the touch. He blindly reached for the back of John’s neck to guide his lips closer to his own for a kiss. He felt John smiling into it, couldn’t help but smile himself as John’s nose brushed his chin. He curled his fingers along the nape of John’s neck as their tongues met and jaws worked wider to get a lick of the other’s soul.

The kiss was better this way, backwards. It intensifed something they’d lacked before. John imparted validation with his lips, administered strokes of trust with his tongue. He kissed Paul like he was the only stimulant worth having in his life. Paul’s pulse thumped when John’s hand loosely wrapped around his throat—intoxicating, possessive. Lennon had a hold on him in more ways than one.  

But as they had done too often before, the pills drove a wedge between the sweeter moments of their relationship.

Paul parted the kiss and looked at his lover longingly, ran his finger along John’s thin, sheening lower lip.

“You’re gonna hafta compensate me for the pills I sold,” he said, voice edged with seduction to sway his lover.

John’s eyes peeled open. They flitted between Paul’s, and he widened the gap between them at the change in subject. “What happened to that lot I just gave you?” he asked, frowning.

Internally sighing at the confrontational tone of John’s voice, Paul shifted up and away. To his dismay, his charm proved ineffective, and now he’d have to argue his cause. He leaned against the adjacent sink instead and dug for a pack of ciggies. Another of John’s gifts.

“Didn’t have the time to catch up on sleep,” he spoke around a bobbing fag, casual as could be, like a chat about the weather and not a debate over the illicit business they ran here.

Plagued, John’s head went loose on his shoulders. He rested it against the chipped mirror behind him. “Paul, I don’t want you using these as some kinda sleep substitute.”

Paul rolled his eyes, puffing hard on his cigarette. “But it’s fine when everyone else does it, right?”  

There was an unsettling, careless air about him. The soothing tone he once had now hid behind the smoke in his lungs, kind eyes cowered beneath a creased scowl. A cigarette, some leather, and a few pills fashioned the hardest of shells around the softest of boys.

“You’re not everyone else to me.” John frowned, focusing on the traces of dirt beneath his nails. “You know that.”

Lennon kept an air-tight seal on his emotions; but God, if Paul couldn’t see how much he cared for him, the lad would have to be more blind than he.

Paul stood before John once again, eyes deeper than wells as they met a hesitant brown. He reached a hand out to cup John’s cheek. “Exactly, which is why it shouldn’t even be a question. I just need a couple, John.”

He played innocent too well, and manipulation didn’t suit him.

Frustrated, John sighed and knocked Paul’s hand away. He pushed his way off of the sink before standing in the middle of the room, the confrontation within him summoning him to his feet, weighing too heavily on his shoulders. Suddenly his mouth felt dry and craved the acerbic distraction of nicotine. He frantically rooted in his pockets for a smoke.

“Yeah, and then tomorrow you’re _just_ gonna need a handful, and next week you’re _just_ gonna need my stash, and by the end of the month, I’m out of shit to sell,” he explained, jabbing the air with his unlit cigarette.

“I don’t understand why you’re so fucking chafed by this!”

John shook his head with a sardonic chuckle. Vainly he toyed with the wheel of his lighter,  flicking a short-lived spark time and time again with a sneer instead meant for his lover. Keen on his struggles, Paul approached and lit the fag at first attempt, making John feel like even more of a fool than he already did. Everything caved at the hands of McCartney.

John closed his eyes and pulled long and slow at his cigarette. On a sigh, a bundled, white cloud of smoke drifted from his lips as he ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to say it. But the words had gathered on the tip of his tongue, ready like a rifle, then some sadistic part of his brain told him it needed to be said, and before he knew it the words drifted heavier than the smoke in the space between them.

“I feel like I never see you sober anymore.”

There. Now it was alive, a breathing being they had to confront.

Paul laughed mirthlessly. “Excuse me?”

John rubbed a hand over his face, finding so much to process and so little time to do so. Lennon nearly had a knack for poking holes in their more pleasant days. It was too late to sew this one back together and pretend life was peachy. Too late to pretend the relationship wasn’t just an addict and his dealer.

“Paul, yer—fuck it, I think you’re using too much, okay?”

Paul frowned deeply. With a hand on his hip and a fire in his eyes, he looked more affronted than John had ever seen. “You’re fuckin’ delusional, you are.” Narrowed eyes and a seething tone foretold of the dangerous territory—one which John Lennon blindly trod.

“Oh, am I?” He squinted back at him, ruthless. “C’mere, then.”

Paul froze. The implications viciously struck his chest, and he suddenly felt caged and cornered. And John was only rattling the bars in want for a feral strike.

The last he’d used was at lunchtime. Three hours for four pills to wear off seemed overly optimistic. He had reasonable suspicion his wide eyes would betray him if his animal-like defenses hadn’t already done so.

“What? No,” he defied.

“What’s wrong? Got something to hide, love?” John smirked cattily. “Let’s see those telling eyes of yours.”

He dropped his fag to the floor and extinguished it beneath his boot. Paul swallowed fiercely, empathizing with the poor cigarette. Lennon crept forward teasingly and grabbed for Paul’s forearm, only to have the boy jerk away.

“Fuck you, John. I don’t owe you _any_ fucking explanations,” he snapped, the fight not completely drained from him. Suddenly finding the whole situation distasteful and out of his favor, he made for the bathroom door.

John frowned deeply, his blood searing in his veins as he watched his lover walk away from the argument…from him. “Oi, where the fuck’re _you_ going?!”

He turned, the door a solid weight against his back as he faced John. “You stay outta my shit, I’ll stay outta yours! That’s the way you want it, right, John?”

John shook his head madly, anger briefly slipping to sorrow. “Paul, I—”

As soon as he stepped forward, Paul raised a finger, stopping John dead in his tracks.

“Don’t you follow me! Don’t you fuckin’ follow me, mate, I swear to God,” he warned, tone concise and sharp enough to cut glass.

And when he left, John couldn’t even _begin_ to sort when it had all gone to hell.

 _“Fuck!”_ he bit out through clenched teeth. He wailed kick after kick on the rusty sink pipe, welcoming the pain shooting through his foot. Less for the heart to bear.

He shouldn’t have said a goddamn word. They were fine! _Paul_ was fine! Sure, sometimes he frightened John when the circles beneath his eyes grew darker and the muscle on his bones grew thinner. But Paul was a smart lad, capable of taking care of himself and knowing when he’d reached his limit.

But at the hands of a little fear, John turned nasty and accusatory. No doubt he came off as a money-hungry bastard who’d sacrifice his own boyfriend before he would those pills. Nothing could be more backwards, though. John couldn’t give a rat’s arse about his stash, hardly ever used it; but his boy was a different question altogether. He’d drop the pushing game in a heartbeat if it meant the safety and sobriety of his younger lover.

Everything caved at the hands of McCartney— _especially_ John Lennon.

 

~ * ~

 

So fast the evening light died. A curtain of black drew tightly around Mendips, only sparing the light of a few stars.

John watched curls of steam leave the cuppa clasped between his hands. They reminded him of Paul and the way he smoked, mesmerizing wisps dancing between his lips.

Since their heated exchange in the school loo, the two boys had yet to speak to one another. As bid of him, John kept his distance. Dejected, he sought refuge in the lonesome sitting room, his feet tucked beneath him in Mimi’s floral-patterned armchair.

No matter how busy he kept himself, Paul was everywhere. His face slowly came to life in the doodles of John’s notebook, his name replaced all of the lyrics on his records, and, most prominently, he was every passing thought in John’s mind. A visceral torture, and he only found himself accepting rather than disregarding his pain.

The steam from his cup rose higher, teasing him with the illusion of Paul’s smile hidden away in the endless spirals. John hoped he’d gotten home safely, that there was a spark still strong enough between them to mend what John had so terribly broken.

Startling him from his musings came the shrill ring of the telephone. He sprung to his feet and crossed the room, cautious to prevent Mimi from waking.

“Hullo?” John answered, heart hammering wildly and without reason.

A rushed voice sounded down the line. “John? John, it’s Stu. You need to get over here.”

He frowned and clutched the receiver closer. “Stu? Why’re you ringing so late? Where’re you at?”

“We’re at Ringo’s pub, and your boy is pissed off his arse. You need to come get ‘im.”

John gaped stupidly at the carpet, struggling to connect the pieces. When they finally fell into place, his stomach dropped.

“My—? _Paul_ is there?”

Anytime he went to the bar, he was with John, so why the fuck was he there now? He should be at home watching Mike, not getting into god knows what in a grotty beer joint.

 _“Yes,_ John!” Stu spoke loudly over the roar of the pub. “Ask questions later and just get the fuck over here.”

He jumped to his feet, forgetting he still held the phone. He leaned down to loosen the taut chord and frantically assured, “Shit, I’m on my way, just…keep ‘im safe.”

Without want for answer, he slammed the receiver down. Within the next five minutes, he’d flung on his jacket, drainies, and boots, and darted off to diffuse a situation he hadn’t the slightest clue about.

 

~ * ~

 

Friday night was a hot night for the pubs. John fought tooth and nail just to shove his way through the entrance and towards Ringo’s counter. The older lad was found finishing up with a customer when John pushed his way into an empty space at the bar.

“Ritchie, where is he?” John demanded, sparse on the pleasantries.

Ringo craned his neck to check the bar over and pointed to the back corner. “Stu’s trying to calm ‘im down in the back over there.”

John looked to see Stuart with two strong hands at Paul’s shoulders. The young lad pierced him with wild eyes and vainly pushed at the hands with drunken strength. John sighed and made to intervene until Ringo spoke again.

“He goes and spins some kinda B.B. King number on the juke over there, then it’s like…something _flashes_ in his eyes.” John shoved his hands under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Next thing I know he’s hassling Ivan for some of his pills. And that one was none too fond of sharin’. So, Paul got an elbow to the cheek when he tried fighting the pills off of Ivan anyway.”

Bloody hell. That bloody song they’d danced to some months ago in this very pub was the catalyst for Paul’s outburst. John knew he had been on Paul’s mind as much as Paul had been on his that night. Unfortunately, Paul distracted himself in all the wrong ways.

“I’ll get ‘im home. Thanks, Ringo.” John tossed him a nod.

When he reached his mates Paul had worked himself up into such a frenzy he hardly noticed his boyfriend approaching.

“Fucking let _go_ of me,” he was fussing, squirming fiercely. “I don’t need a babysitter!”

John laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Stuart, lad, come off ‘im, I’ll take it from here.”

“Christ, he’s all yours, John.” Stuart released him and tossed his hands up in surrender. “Have fun taking that one home,” he left them with as he walked back to Astrid and their other mates.

“Oh, fuck you!” Paul shouted after him.

John grabbed his shoulders, a much gentler hold, and deeply searched his eyes. “Macca, what all have you had tonight, babe?”

“And fuck you, too, John,” he spat, eyes steel daggers. “I told you not to follow me.”

“And I didn’t, did I? But it’s hard to ignore a call saying yer terrorizing the bloody village over here.”

Paul scoffed, derisive. “Piss off, I don’t need ev’ryone chaperonin’ me. I can handle meself.”

His eyes were hard, an amber swirl much like the whiskey of which he’d had too much. His hair was a mess, the collar of his shirt stretched and worn. Then there sat the nasty shiner right on his cheekbone, bruised and proud. Paul was tired. Dead tired.

“This says otherwise.” John touched careful fingers to his cheek. “What the fuck’re you doing getting roughed up in here, love?” he asked, soft and pained.

Paul frowned and turned his head, the angle only offering his face for more of John’s caresses. Even piss drunk, the thought of how foolish he’d behaved was a sober one. He sighed and leaned  his head against the wall, staring back at John through lashes heavy with fatigue.

“Fuckin’ wankers ‘round ‘ere can’t spare a Prel or two,” he grumbled.

John wanted to kick the wall out of frustration. Why did Paul need pills just to make it through life now? And then John wanted to kick himself, because he realized it was his fault. He’d made an addict.

“Alright, alright,” John soothed. “Let’s, um,” he looked down, guilty, then put on a brave face, “let’s get you home.”

Paul’s features hardened once more, and he jerked his wrist free from John’s grip. “No. I’m not leavin’ ‘til I get what I came for.”

John narrowed his eyes at him. “You’re fuckin’ joking.”

A sadistic smile curled his lips. A sinister veil lowered over his eyes until John hadn’t a clue whom this boy was anymore. “You must be drunker’n I am if you think that, mate.”

For the first time in a long time, Lennon was at a loss. He could stay here with Paul and verbally duke it out, have a second round of their argument in the loo. But that seemed so counterproductive. They’d only run circles around each other and prolong the possibility of Paul hurting himself further.

Or he could give his lover the thing his body craved.

John sighed as his eyes fell to the floor. “If you let me take you home, I’ll give you some when we get there.”

Paul’s expression was shrouded, unreadable. “If yer lyin’ to me—”

“Swear on me mum,” John promised, pressing a hand to his heart. And damn him for meaning it.

Paul skewered him with his scrutinizing eyes. The hesitance, the skepticism shone clearly in those blown pupils. But finally, defeated, he breathed, “Okay.”

John nodded but ached to kiss him. Just to feel something between them.

Instead, he tugged at Paul’s jacket sleeve, and Paul stumbled behind him. He remembered a time he’d hauled him out of the pub, the boy all drunken giggles and smiling eyes. Things seemed different now. Paul followed quietly, still tripping over his feet, but his mind millions of miles away.

By the time they greeted the street again, John tucked Paul close to his side, a hand on his hip. Whether from faulty footing or want of being held, Paul leaned into him, and John couldn’t have been more grateful. He tightened his hold, and Paul leaned his head in closer.

“‘M still mad at you,” he mumbled suddenly, voice cutting the hushed night air.

John turned his head to him, nuzzled the thick hair nearly resting on his shoulder. “That’s okay. ‘M still here, ain’t I?”

A choked sound lost between a sob and a laugh pushed out of Paul. He dawdled to a stop as he rubbed his face against the warm leather of John’s jacket. His emotions bounced tirelessly, as if his thoughts rambled along an unsteady train track, frighteningly close to derailing.

“You’re still here,” he affirmed into his shoulder, sniffing and clutching the material at John’s side, begging to be held. “You’re still here.”

John frowned and pushed the hair away from Paul’s face, sought out his eyes. They were closed tight and wet around the edges. John’s heart lurched. “Hey, hey—”

Before he could speak further, Paul wrapped himself around him, arms slung around his broad shoulders and face tucked into the soft skin of his neck. The tears flowed, the first ever shed in front of John. He felt stupid, so drunk and so stupid.

John wasted no time in drawing him in. He snaked an arm around Paul’s waist and twisted a hand into his hair. John wanted to say the emotional inconsistency tired him out, wanted to say this was more than either of them could handle. But, God, Paul in his arms stole his breath and scattered his thoughts, left only with the feeling of how perfect this was resonating through him.

So stunned was he by the naked vulnerability that he could only hold Paul as he summoned his words. “I’m a dick. I’m such a fuckin’ dick,” he said, muffled, John’s skin a sheath to the heartbreaking words.

John stroked his hair. “Paul, baby, stop it—”

“No, no, I’ve treated you like shit today. Hell, probably for longer than I’ve realized.” He took a shaky breath, chest moving rapidly against John’s. “And…and you don’t deserve it,” he confessed, head shaking in adamant protest of his behavior.

John clenched his eyes shut, a vain hope it’d block his ears from hearing such shame. They both knew Paul wasn’t who he used to be—the shy boy John couldn’t tear his eyes away from on the bus. But, fuck all, when John wanted him, he wanted _all_ of him.

“You’ve just had too much, and now you’re spilling your heart out on the street. Stop it, now,” he soothed gently. “You need some sleep, love.”

Talented fingers massaged his scalp. John swayed them slowly, felt the loose fists in his jacket tighten. Paul sighed against him, relief prominent in the breath, and John kissed his temple over and over, lips forever fond of the touch.

Finally, Paul lifted his head and looked at John, eyes glassy and bright despite the encompassing black. “Take me home, Johnny,” he whispered.

A soft smile graced John’s lips as he swept the tears from Paul’s ruddy cheeks. He kissed the swell of his lips, slow and comforting and everything Paul needed at that moment. When they parted he raked a hand through Paul’s hair, the boy’s eyes fluttering captivatingly. And with a slight nod, John tucked Paul back into his side and led them down the empty streets.

 

~ * ~

 

With his glasses on, John recognized him immediately. He tilted his head away from Paul, who was pressing chaste kisses to John’s cheek as they walked. Paul frowned when he pulled away, until he looked ahead and saw him too.

Michael sat on the front steps, school bag laid forgotten in the grass and a stick in his hand as he idly poked at the concrete. The streetlights had long flickered to life, but there was a clear absence of their father.

“Paul?” John rounded on him with confusion.

“No,” he muttered to an unasked question, baffled, “he has Scouts today. He was supposed to be at Scouts.”

“Fucking hell,” John said under his breath.

They’d done it again.

They hastened their steps, and it amazed John how sober Paul could seem when it came to the wellbeing of his brother.

“Mike, why aren’t you at Scouts, lad?” he asked when they approached.

He sat with his knees curled to his chest, the dull gleam in his eyes stinging like a slap to the face.

“Scouts are _tomorrow,_ Paul,” he mumbled, his dejected tone pelting spikes of guilt down Paul’s spine. “Today is Friday.” With a pitiful slouch to his shoulders, he stood and waited before the door, the countenance of a kicked puppy.

Paul could’ve crumbled right there in the street.

“Michael, I had no idea—you know I would’ve been here if I remembered,” he sprouted, the apologies lacking something his incapacitated brain refused to muster.

It didn’t matter. “Can we go inside, please?”

Eyes shining with a pinnacle of remorse and mouth dropped in helpless anguish, Paul gaped at John. He searched for his words, an explanation on his lover’s face. But a wry smile pulled languidly along his lips, and two boys who thought they held all of the answers of the world suddenly had none at all.

John motioned to the door, and Paul trudged over to it thoughtlessly, numb.

John curled a hand around Mike’s shoulder; the boy looked up at him, a sullen pout on his lips. John lifted his eyebrows disarmingly and pleaded, “Give us a smile, Mikey,” plastering an artificial one on his own face.

Unsurprisingly, the grin he summoned to humor John did nothing to salve the burn in his gut.

They all shuffled inside, silently grateful for the absence of Jim McCartney and any distress arising from his presence. Michael stole away to his bedroom like a mouse to its hole. Only when Paul turned to bid goodnight did he realize his brother was gone, his final attempt at apologizing dropping dead to the floor like a stone falling short on the skip.

John slid up behind Paul, who stared, lost, at the staircase. He slipped reassuring arms around his shoulders, thumb tenderly stroking the raise of his collarbone. “Come on, we’ll give ‘im some time, love,” he spoke softly by Paul’s ear.

Paul leaned into him, head dropped beside John’s as his hands draped over the forearms below his neck. A kiss dropped to the soft skin behind his ear, eyes closing on instinct. Tendrils of sluggish heat spread through like a lazy wildfire. Without thinking he nodded at the conviction in John’s voice—the resolution it always seemed to carry that had Paul chasing its every whim from day one.

So, hands tangled, they stalked off to Paul’s bedroom. In the pale lighting pushing past the windows’ blinds, John silently undressed Paul, an intimate gesture intended to decompress the both of them. Stray kisses sought refuge against his skin every so often as articles of clothing fell to the floor. He felt Paul melting beneath his lips, muscles unclenching.

But, like thunder cracking calm skies, Paul said, “I still need ‘em, Johnny.”

The quietude within John shattered, but he glossed over the shards. He lifted his lips from Paul’s naked shoulder, withheld the words niggling in his throat. For better or worse, he had given Paul his word, and it was far too late at night to tear at each other’s throat yet again. Like an obedient little dealer, he proffered a stash larger than the one before it—perpetuating the habit.

Paul’s eyes sparkled like they housed the night’s stars above them. And it killed John. It killed John to see a lad so ecstatic over something so finite. A love so unrequited, because Paul loved something that offered nothing in return, something that could never love him as much as….

The night table rattled, as if in protest, when Paul stowed his pills inside. John nearly sighed in relief as they remained untouched. He’d sleep with Paul tonight, not the pills.

All soft shadows underscoring the curves of his body and crisp light sharpening its angles, Paul slid into bed. Wearing a quirked smile, he finally pulled John down after him and eased into his embrace at long last. Arms drawn securely around his waist, John sealed the gaps between them.

Breathing synchronized and hearts kissed their chests at each beat—John knew, with everything, it was meant to be like that.

He slotted a thigh between Paul’s and threaded his hand into his hair. Nothing more he wanted than for the boy to rest and restore the hours prellies had taken. The gentle sigh that broke their silence informed him they’d found peace at last.

The choking tension snaked around his neck shook loose at that moment. John could breathe again. He closed his eyes. Maybe sunrise would grant Paul a change of heart, and the night air would chip away the dependency in his bones.

Paul would make the right choices come morning—John knew, with everything, he _had_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol sorry if this is getting shitty. things pick up next chapter and I hope I can pull it all off *nervous laughter*
> 
> the reception I get from this fic is phenomenal, and y'all couldn't make a little writer any happier. leave all of your thoughts below, yell at me for lack of updates, tell me a bad joke, just do whatever you want in the comments. I'll love it regardless.
> 
> here's to hoping I'll be back with a chapter 16 soon :) (but first, ideally an update to Stealing Hearts)
> 
> later, Beatle babes <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! HAPPY MCLENNON DAY !!! 
> 
> Additionally: !!! HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY TO RINGO !!!
> 
> To all of you, I'd like to give a thank you, because this fucking fic has reached 3k hits, and I absolutely cannot believe that! If you even gave this one a read at all, I just thank you so much for it. I honestly never expected so many people to enjoy and had no idea what I was doing, really. So, much love to you all <3
> 
> Finally, I hate to kill the mood on mclennon day, but this chapter is Peak Angst. It was the only thing I had to post I'm sorryyyyyy - but I had to contribute somehow!

The mid-morning sun tapped against his eyelids, fighting to creep through like they were slits in curtains.

His first coherent thought of the day pleaded for a wink’s longer sleep. He groaned and turned, tossed an arm over the warm body beside him. The first breath of morning pushed through him as a sigh.

Contentment.

But John soon frowned in his half wakefulness. Rather than a slim waist, his arm cradled the cushiony tops of thighs. His hearing piqued at the knocking and sliding of wood lost somewhere above him. John peeled open one eye and caught a sliver of his lover’s exposed hip. Tenderly, he dropped a kiss, dry lips greeting soft skin.

“Paul?” he called out, but the sun-kissed dust in the air painted his voice with a broken rasp.

Nonetheless, warm fingers carded through John’s messy tufts of auburn hair in response. He nearly dropped back off into sleep but fought the urge and looked up instead.

His first regret of the morning.

Paul sat with open palm and three pills arranged on top of it. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner, it seemed. The sleep flushed from John’s skin as though it had been washed down a drain. The bruise on Paul’s cheek was a ghastly purple, hollowed eyes managing to see their way around it. Hair stuck to his forehead in greasy strands, and if John didn’t know any better, he would only think the boy ill.

Staring corpse-like to the wall in front of the bed, Paul tossed the handful into his mouth, one hand still threaded into John’s hair as if to ground himself between the reality and the high. Not even possessing the decorum to fetch a glass of water, he rubbed at his throat as one would a dog’s when giving it medication.

John’s heart dropped to his stomach, where the two organs thumped out a crazy rhythm that made him want to vomit.

“You use like that every morning?”

“Only when I’m hungover, bruised,” he indicated his cheek, “or knackered as all fuck. And this morning, love, I happen to be all three.” A grin creased the stillness that sleep had ironed onto his face. But John struggled to understand the emotion behind even a simple stretch of lips. Paul was no different than a cryptic text these days, and John had never felt more illiterate. Where did bitterness end and joviality begin?

His hesitation undoubtedly bled through his stoicism, for Paul added, “You worry _far_ too much to be John Lennon.” Then he flashed a toothy smile so soft and fond John could only label it as Paul’s and no other’s.

He leaned down and kissed John, whose thoughts unfurled instantly. The tension in his brow withered away as his warm breath collided with Paul’s amidst the lax press of their lips. His hand threaded into Paul’s hair, thoughtlessly bedded down the stubborn locks at the back. Their tongues grazed lazily, only parting to stroke along teeth and lips, and the kiss ensued with a sense of serenity John hadn’t felt in weeks.

Paul’s hand slipped beneath his white t-shirt and glided across jumping muscles, pulling snatches of John’s breath with each nomadic fingertip. John fisted Paul’s own shirt into his hand and hauled him on top, eager to eliminate the unwelcome space between them. Paul rolled into his arms smoothly, tongue teasing the wet insides of John’s mouth. John moaned, gently cupped the fullness of Paul’s cheeks as he moved kisses to the corner of Paul’s mouth, then towards his chin. His mind was comfortably numb to the fretting which otherwise occupied it when around Paul.

He half wondered if Paul used his body and lips to seduce John into submission—but then his hips began minutely grinding into John’s, and he remembered not a thread of the thought. Rather, he thoughtlessly nipped at the skin of Paul’s forearm bracketing his head. Strained, thready notes traveled from the back of Paul’s throat. His hot breath ghosted along John’s face with the richness of alcohol still clinging to it. John steadied their rhythm when it faltered, with strong hands on his mate’s arse to intensify pressure at each thrust. With it so early and his need so fresh, John couldn’t bother with their barriers of clothing, impeding the skin-on-skin contact. His brow knitted and eyes shut under the blissful barrage of these little doses of euphoria.

However, apparently a few stolen moments for themselves on this relaxed morning was asking for too much.

At the sound of the door knob turning, the two sprang apart, like a bolt of lightning had struck between them. Paul scrambled to conceal his stash within his drawer. The clock and lamp atop the nightstand rattled madly from his haste. In a familiar rehearsal, John afforded an appropriate gap between Paul and himself, tossed the blankets over their laps in concealment of seedy evidence. He nearly wanted to scream the entirety of Liverpool down over the interruption.

But when he looked to the door, twine by twine the knot in his stomach unraveled. Stood in an oversized t-shirt (which could very possibly be Paul’s) and sporting an impressive bedhead was the youngest McCartney. The doorway nearly swallowed him whole until he shuffled past it sleepily. The hard clack of a small heel knocked against the floorboards, and John noticed with a ripple of satisfaction that Michael was wearing the boots he had gifted him.

As soon as he neared the edge of the bed, Paul scooped him into his arms with a beaming smile and tossed him onto the space between him and John. It tore a youthful giggle from the lad’s tummy, chiming sweeter than the birds beyond the window. John smiled and ruffled his hair.

He figured apologies were in order. In a motion John had yet to label as mature or immature, Michael had bedded last night’s commotion of his own accord. Consequently, unaddressed issues stenched the air as though they’d been left to rot for months. John waited for Paul to perfume it from the room with words of remorse.

Instead, the eldest McCartney son, with eyes glittering from sunlight slanting across his face, offered, “What d’ye say Johnny and I treat ya to a special day, Mikey?”

Mike instantly perked up, the sleep flushing away from his young face. “Really?” Paul nodded, smiling. “What’re we gonna do?”

And that’s when John realized a child forgave quicker than they angered. Paul was saintly as ever in the boy’s reverent, naive eyes. The least John could do was support Paul in his efforts to mend the damages done to his brother.

“‘Ave a guess!” he joined in, nudged the young boy playfully.

“Ummm….” Michael bit his lip in thought, eyes staring to the ceiling seemingly in search of answers. “I dunno.” He finally shrugged, a dopey sort of smile playing at his face. So contagious, it had the older boys’ lips curling similarly.

“Ohhh, c’mon, ‘ave a _guess!”_ John urged once more, if only to prolong such an innocent display of joy. Paul darted his eyes to him, the fondness within them a warm light shining on John.

“What d’you say we start with a film?” Paul suggested. “And then whatever else you wanna do is your call after that.”

John imagined the three of them shrouded in the back row of a cinema, his hand slipped between Paul’s fingers in secrecy. The pictures would flash before them, maintaining Mike’s attention and allowing for stolen kisses. No matter how cracked and imperfected they were, it was the closest John had come to feeling part of a family.

“Gear!” Mike enthused, undoubtedly finding a pleasurable thought among the notion as well.

“Off, off, _off_ you go, lad!” Paul tickled him mercilessly, until the boy had squirmed his way from the bed in a bout of giggles. He panted, hands on his knees, in the middle of the room—a dramatic recovery. After beaming at the boys grinning widely from the bed, he darted off to his own room to hastily clean himself up.

Paul turned to John, still smiling, and sighed contentedly. Gently John cupped his cheek, emotions churning with soft undulations within his chest. When Paul’s face fell with the weight of realization, John knew those emotions had rushed to brim in the chestnut swirl of his eyes. John’s heart kicked to and fro, swinging against his chest like a pendulum. A most fearsome four-letter word perched at the tip of his tongue, and John, for whatever reason, could not imagine a better time to send it fluttering off.

“Paul, I—”

“Paulie, I can’t find me jacket!” Mike suddenly groused from down the hall.

Paul blinked dazedly. His eyes drifted off to a place behind John’s shoulder, and the moment sunk into the mattress between them. He sighed, only now with a twinge of annoyance, and hollered back where downstairs the jacket could be found.

But John had already tossed the covers aside and scooted off the bed. What a daft notion it had been anyway. Such an inconvenient time of day and such a solid vow that would only send Paul running for the hills in fear of what it all meant.

John turned when a hand firmly grasped his wrist. The blankets pooled sloppily on Paul’s lap, his eyes wide in such a way that John excused it as the pills. “You what, John?” he questioned softly.

“Paul, I…think we should go now.” He smiled, feigned unseeing to the drop in Paul’s expression. Relief, no doubt. “Little lad’s gonna burst an artery if we’re not outta here soon, eh?” He reached forward and stroked the back of his knuckles along his lover’s cheekbone.

“Oh.” Paul cleared his throat. “Yeah, suppose you’re right.” He sniffed, rather forcefully, before joining John in tugging on his trousers.

Ten minutes later, John and Paul waited impatiently at the doorway. In the process of dressing, the two learned Jim McCartney had already fucked off early that morning without so much as a nod goodbye. John had noted the dull flicker of dejection in Paul’s eyes when he searched the house two times over and came up short each time. To assuage the hurt, John had rubbed his back soothingly, whispering a, “Never mind him,” but realized there was little to be said in the long run.

But if the permanent grin on his face and the occasional, cheerful whistles were any indication, the younger lad had perked up remarkably since then.

“Mikey, lad, chop chop!” Paul urged with a resounding clap of his hands.

For someone who seemed so keen on enjoying a day with his older brother, it seemed odd that the young boy suddenly had flagged in his haste.

“What’s takin’ ‘im so long?” John mumbled to his boots, scuffing them along the floor.

Paul drummed his fingers against his thigh, quietly contemplating. John hadn’t a clue how his boyfriend would summon the willpower to sit through an entire film in such a state. But these new hurdles were something they’d have to figure out together, as a couple.

In a sudden rush of words that nearly startled John, Paul said, “Dunno, ‘m gonna go check.”

He skipped up the steps as though treading air. John watched after him lazily, head leaned back against the front door. Quickly he disappeared around the corner.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” A crisp yell from up the stairs. Paul’s strained voice.

John only allowed himself a moment to frown before he thundered up the steps two at a time. He stopped abruptly at Paul’s open bedroom door. John read the tense demeanor of Paul’s stance before he read anything regarding the situation. But when he did, his heart crumpled like a sheet of paper.

Michael clutched Paul’s stash of pills in one hand, and in his other, a dangerous number of them rested in his upturned palm, as if in the midst of a thorough examination. The bedside drawer sat open, leaving no ambiguity as to what had delayed the child. His face portrayed abject fear. His mouth fell agape and eyes bugged in a hopeless scramble for some form of excuse, an appropriate defense.

“I…I was lookin’ for a comb,” he offered meekly.

Paul brusquely snatched his belongings from Michael’s hands and poured the Prellies back within the safe confines of their plastic bag. His dark eyes returned to his brother’s in a pointed glare.

“Well, don’t bother for it anymore. Me bedroom ain't a bloody candy shop. Go to your room, Mike.”

John nearly heard the thud of Mike’s face as it dropped—the sludgy clunk of his heart as it sank. For as numb and helpless as he stood in the doorway, John’s eyes instantly drew to Paul at that moment. The uncharacteristic foulness of him alarmed John. Of course he too understood the danger in Mike so effortlessly stumbling upon the pills. But where lay the tender tone with which to warn him of the harm?

In another feeble attempt, Michael pleaded, “Paulie—”

But Paul already had resigned himself from the altercation.

_“Go!”_

Even John flinched at the acerbic snap of the word. With salty tears brimming his eyes, Michael pushed past the boys and out of the room.

“Bloody hell,” Paul sighed once his brother had exited, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Jesus, a bit fuckin’ harsh there, yeah, mate?”

“Piss off, John, I don’t need another fucking lecture.” He tugged at his hair, hand on his hip, pacing—looking in desperate need of a cigarette.   

John frowned and turned Paul towards him, a death grip on his arm. “Paul, that can’t happen again,” he said, more stern than he had ever known himself to be.

“I know, I know.” He looked away, plagued by paranoia. “I need to start hidin’ ‘em better.”

John shook his head dumbly, as though water filled his ears. Perhaps his head had become so hot it melted the words before they filtered into his brain. Because surely he had misheard. No way in hell would Paul want to keep the pills anywhere near the house with such a risk as Michael snooping around them again.

Approaching him in a manner equally suitable for a feral animal, John gently placed a hand at the side of Paul’s neck. His thumb stroked a manic pulse soothingly. Careful, he suggested, “Paul, why don’t you let me hold onto the pills for a while.”

McCartney’s eyes narrowed. “Yer not gonna give ‘em back, are you?”

John stared at him. Telling Paul what he wanted to hear—yes, yes, of course I will, you’ll always be Johnny’s little addict—played in no one’s favor. The consequences could prove catastrophic, but it was a risk they would have to take.

“I…I think it’s time to give it up, love. Look at what it’s doing to you, Paul—to Mike. Jesus, look what it’s doing to _us.”_

Paul shook his head minutely, having the decency to sneer all the while. Eyes so narrowed John may as well have stared into the pitch black of hollowed and shadowed sockets.

“Was this your ploy, John? You get pitiful lads—the ones from broken homes—hooked on yer shit, until they need it so bad they start to think maybe they need you, too. Then Johnny feels all the love in the world ‘cause he’s got a young thing wrapped ‘round his finger, is that right?” As if he’d allow John the opportunity to answer. “Can’t say you lack dedication, though.” He shrugged. “Five months is longer than I’d wait for a meaningless fuck.”

John was stunned. This wasn’t Paul. This wasn’t _his_ Paul. His mind cruised on autopilot, and the pills spoke for him, and John fought to remind himself of that. No matter how many times he repeated the mantra, _It’s the pills, not Paul,_ his heart still lurched at Paul’s cutting words. What even possessed Paul to think he was no more than a cheap lay for John?

His eyes flicked to the bag Paul still gripped in his sweaty hand. If he bum-rushed the lad, the pills could be back in John’s responsible possession, any subtlety and formality regarding the situation tossed to the wind.

Though, Paul was more astute than John expected.

John barely registered the catlike dart of his lover’s eyes before he bolted off to the bathroom. John chased after him, but it was too late. The door slammed shut behind him and the lock clicked. Secluded within a Preludin paradise all of his own.

Panic coursed through John’s blood like quicksilver. Desperate as a madman, he wrapped on the door with an iron fist, spitting out Paul’s name around the ribbons of sporadic curses. He jiggled the door knob in hopes it would clatter to the floor; he rammed the door with his shoulder, heedless of injury, in hopes it would tear loose from its hinges.

“The key’s on top of the door.”

At a breakneck pace John turned and caught Michael peeking from his bedroom doorway. If possible, he seemed more frightened than before.

John blindly flung his hand over the door and raked his fingers along the frame, until they grazed something cold and metallic. After fussing with the lock with unsteady hands, he barged his way into the room.

Paul stood with head bowed over a large portion of pills he had poured into his open hand. When John’s brain clicked on and discerned Paul’s intentions as he raised his cupped hand to his mouth, John rushed forward and gripped his wrist, knuckles white with unflinching determination. Paul managed a fair fight of his own, fingers desperate to tear John’s hand away, carelessly digging into the skin of the older lad’s wrist.

John hardly had the advantage of three prellies pumping white heat through his veins, but adrenaline flowed through him rampantly, webbing across his chest. The possibility of life or death weighed heavily upon him; Paul squeezed the latter far too impulsively within his hand. And he knew it was that fierce combination which eventually strengthened him enough to wrangle some twenty pills from Paul’s defiant fingers.

A few clattered like pellets as they hit the floor. But, with no trace of hesitance, John flushed the main bulk of them down the toilet, pulling the chain before Paul had a last mad chance to dive in and salvage them. They circled and tossed around the bowl like people trapped in a tidal wave.

“What the bleedin’ Christ is wrong with you?!” John questioned at last, breathing heavily.

“I can’t do it anymore—I can’t take it, I can’t _take it,_ John!” came Paul’s response, ripping through his throat.

Paul collapsed to the floor in defeat, back sliding against the sink counter as he crumpled to what remained of him—a shell of a boy. Tears wasted no time in pouring down his round cheeks. With twisted features, he repeatedly knocked his head against the cabinets on the counter behind him in dull thuds.

John drew to his side within a breath, his arms instantly wrapping around Paul to stop the harsh banging. Chest heaving and choked cries battering through his throat, Paul allowed John to hold him—tucked into his boyfriend’s side and dropped his head to his shoulder. John gentled him, kissing his hair and then combing where his lips had touched.

Hot angry tears kicked within John’s chest, swelled in his throat. Tears empathetic to Paul’s pain; tears from the unbearable thought of how lifeless Paul would feel in his arms had he been a minute late bursting into the room.

They sat there, the room impossibly allowing for both silence and sobbing, until John decided to speak.

“Paul…Paul, what were you gonna do?” His voice sounded alien to his ears, cracked and hesitant.

Paul nuzzled his face deeper into John’s chest and twisted a hand into the looser parts of his shirt near his hip. He took a shuddery breath. John nestled his lips to the thick crown of Paul’s hair, patiently waiting. If there was one thing he wouldn’t strip him of,  it was his words.

“I just…I wanted everything to stop for a while.” He safely cushioned his reply in the places of John’s chest dampened with tears.

John softly shook his head and tightened his hold on Paul, lest the boy disappear completely. “Baby, there isn’t any ‘for a while’ with this. We’re talking permanence here.” Around the lump in his throat, he managed, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you at the hands of something I gave you.”

His chest stuttered at the thought. Even Paul shook silently in his arms. John stroked a hand up and down his back, breathed him in, wanting Paul in every single way he could have him. The tears surfaced hotly once again and rolled down his face as he closed his eyes.

“Why, Paul?” he whispered. “Why?”

“They shove Mike and I up north like we’re burdens or summat. But now we’re back, and—and nothing’s the same. I’m not strong enough for this—I can’t be what everyone wants me to be.”

John felt like he had started a conversation months ago and was just now catching up to the rest of it. Paul coughed raucously, quaking both of their bodies with the force of it. Despite it, he steadied on, John running his fingernails along his trembling back.

“Everything’s shit, John,” he rasped out, lips audibly wet from tears or saliva, or both. “I miss George, and I…I miss _playin’_ with ‘im. I miss Michael’s smile and how happy we used to be. Dad’s like a fucking shadow of himself ever since we’ve been back—ever since mum left.” He gasped for a breath, only to have it shatter like glass upon his next words. “God, I miss her, John—I miss mum so much.”

He sobbed into the crook of John’s neck. John tucked his face into Paul’s hair, quietly shushing him, as though the confession hadn’t conjured memories of his own mother. They were just two motherless children sat crying on the loo floor because they flirted around with drugs to fill the voids. Not very different from one another at all.

In fact, aside from the boy weeping in his arms, John knew no one truly understood him.

“I love you, Paul.” At that, he lifted his head and stared into John’s eyes. John swallowed a bundle of nerves, stroked Paul’s ruddy cheek. “That shit you said in your room, it’s not true—none of it’s true. I’ve never felt this way about _anyone._ Pushing means shit to me, and it was wrong for me to reel you in that way. But if I lost you now, I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

Naked emotion breezed along Paul’s face, something of an epiphany finding space between the salty trails on his cheeks and the redness of his swollen eyes. And God, was it gorgeous. “You love me.”

John laughed softly, nervously, but willed himself to keep eye contact. Even more, he swept away the wetness on his cheeks. “Pick anything else out of there, daft lad?”

Gingerly, a smile lifted Paul’s lips. “No, only the important part, really,” he teased back, and John was elated he had even managed to induce a reaction beyond tears.

Bringing his other hand to rest against the warm side of Paul’s neck, John leaned closer to a pair of pink, tear-soaked lips. Paul’s breath caught, stuttering from his parted lips into John’s own, before they connected. As expected, the younger boy’s lips held that unique taste of dried sorrow after an exhausting cry, and John mouthed after it tenderly. Their lips clung soothingly, damp from an intimate amalgamation of their tears.

Paul’s hand blindly climbed up John’s body and into his auburn hair. His fingers twisted in the strands in such a way that John’s tongue flicked along Paul’s upper lip, and a quiet moan slipped from his throat. He eased the kiss into simple but electric pecks. Several at the corner of Paul’s mouth—until he sensed the pleased draw of his brow, and puffs of warm, shaky breaths ghosted by his own lips. Then more against the rounded peak of his chin and along the mounds of his cheek.

As he reached Paul’s ear with his lips, within his own, Paul whispered, “I love you, too.”

John nuzzled the soft skin below his ear, dropping a final kiss there before pulling away. He knew the glaze in Paul’s eyes were in part due to his use that morning. But John saw a renewed sparkle and couldn’t help smiling over how spectacularly love clashed with the hazel in Paul’s eyes.

“I’m gonna stop selling,” he vowed, a sudden deathly seriousness overcoming him. “For you—for everyone I’ve fucked over.” Briefly he averted his gaze, plagued by the thought of how many lives he had potentially ruined. As he focused on the one he had saved, John touched his forehead to Paul’s. “But mainly for you.”

In desperation, he added, “Macca, promise me you’ll stop using,” careful to construct a statement and not a question.

Paul sighed and bit his lip. “John, I want to, but….”

John frowned, grabbed his hand. “But what?”

“It’ll be hell.”

John kissed his forehead. “I’m gonna be with you, love, day and night. Your own dose of heaven in a drug-withdrawal hell.” He grinned softly, encouragingly. “We can do this, yeah?”

A fissure of hope crossed Paul’s face, if only for the time being. Slowly he lowered onto John’s lap, nestling his head onto thick thighs. Eyes closing and mind disbanding toxic thoughts, he breathed, “We can do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, that sure was dramatic.....
> 
> remember these are fictional situations, and this was actually my version of toning down what I initially had plan. once upon a time is was far more morbid. please don't hate me :)))
> 
> drop a comment if you wish! hope you have a FABULOUS rest of your day! <33

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! I love reading comments and am open to suggestions or requests. Inspiration is often limited, so every little bit helps. Each chapter will hopefully be better than the last. Well, at least we can pretend it is. Thanks again for reading!


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